They Grew Up Heroes
by Rowan Blake
Summary: "I don't like him. He's grouchy and his house smells weird." A collection of one-shots about the relationship between Bobby and the boys, set from pre-season 1 up until season 7 and inspired by **SPOILER ALERT** Bobby's final episode.** Rated T for mild graphic imagery and possible mild coarse language in later chapters.
1. Angels are Watching Over You

"I don't like him. He's grouchy and his house smells weird."

Sam slouched on Bobby Singer's couch with a surly expression on his six-year-old face. Dean flopped down next to him, sighing gustily.

"This blows. He's got nothing in the fridge, the TV's busted, and the only thing to do in this whole house is _read_."

The ten year old sounded properly offended, as if he'd been stuck in a state penitentiary rather than a dusty old house. He honestly didn't know which one was worse.

"Dean, why couldn't we stay with Dad? Where'd he go?"

"He's on business, Sammy. He'll be back soon."

"But where is he?"

"It's just business, Sam, okay?" Dean snapped, and immediately felt the guilt set in as Sammy's face dropped. _Those stupid puppy dog eyes…_Dean looped an arm around his brother's shoulder and looked around the living room. To be honest, it wasn't much to look at. There were books and papers scattered everywhere, and a glass of whiskey sat half-finished on a desk the size of a house. Guns on all four walls, a revolver on the mantel, and-was that a flamethrower behind the couch?

"He's nuts." Sammy whispered anxiously.

"Like crunchy peanut butter." Dean whispered back.

"Don't touch anything." Bobby's voice cut in, making both boys jump. Sam nearly fell off the couch and scrambled to hide behind Dean, looking guilty.

"Just assume everything's loaded. You boys doin' okay?"

For some tough hunter, Dean thought Bobby looked freaked-like he was going to break both boys before Dad got back.

"I'm hungry." Sam piped up from behind Dean's shoulder. The grizzled man looked surprised.

"Right. I figured, but I, uh, don't have much in the way of food around here. You like Chinese?"

* * *

It was always the same. First there was the screaming, and then there was the smell. Later, Dean would wonder why he had noticed it. It was weird, the things you focused on when you couldn't focus at all. He smelled it now: that odd mix of burnt feathers and charcoal.

Sharp. Bitter.

Wrong.

And then came the flames. He remembered it in crystalline detail, more clearly than anything else that had happened in his short life; even more than the first time he'd shot a wraith that was about to get Sammy. Even more than the first time Dad came home drunk. It was unforgettable-and not the good kind, either.

It had been like an explosion off of an action movie. And as impossible as it seemed, Dean's world came crashing down around his ears in what had looked like slow motion. Mom, pinned to the ceiling. Him, holding Sammy. And Dad. On the floor. Screaming. It all flowed around him like freeze framed pictures on a motel wall, _not real-not real-not real._

But this time was different. He wasn't holding Sam now and Dad wasn't here. It was just him and Mom. She smiled at him, her blonde curls ricocheting down the back of her nightgown like cascading ribbons. The fire was going to start any minute, he knew, and he had to get her out.

"Mom, we have to go!" The urgency in his voice didn't seem to bother her. Neither did the crimson stain leeching across her stomach. She turned to look at him, and it was like she had something to say; something important that shouldn't be forgotten. It didn't matter now. He took her hand and started pulling towards the door: out, away, anywhere but here. She hung back, glancing at the crib behind them over her shoulder. She pulled her hand away gently and smoothed the hair out of Dean's eyes.

"Why are you so worried, baby? You remember what I told you."

"Mom." He was desperate. They couldn't stay, not here. "Please."

Dean felt his eyes fill with tears.

"Please." He whispered.

A spark caught on the back of Mary's dress before one fine blonde ribbon stuck to the side of her face, melting skin and bone together so that they ran like paint. The fire burst around her, but she was still looking at Dean as she got pulled away to the ceiling with a ghoulish smile painted on her charring features. The bony jaw opened like a hinge, a gaping black maw that mouthed words all too familiar:

"Angels are watching over you."

_"__MOM!"_

_"__Dean!"_

But Dean couldn't see her any more. He was alone in the dark, and he was shaking. No-wait. Someone else was shaking him, talking to him. With a jolt he fell out of the darkness, back to reality.

"Dean! Wake up!"

The voice was gruff and firm. So were the hands on his shoulders. For a second he thought it was Dad, before a face swam in to view in front of him. As soon as he saw Dean's eyes open Bobby looked worried.

"You all right, kid?"

Dean felt his whole body trembling with ragged breaths, and his face was still wet. He had actually been crying-which meant he'd probably screamed out loud too. Of course.

"S-sorry." Dean choked out.

Bobby sat back with a sigh, shaking his head at the terrified ten year old. "You got a pair of lungs on you, son. I heard you all the way upstairs. One thing's for sure, though: your brother sleeps like the dead."

Dean looked over at the cot by the window- sure enough, Sam was sprawled out snoring. The table was still strewn with noodle cartons from the earlier Chinese dinner, and a fortune cookie lay cracked on the table. _Focus, Dean._

"So what was that all about?"

"It was nothing." Dean was embarrassed enough. He didn't need to tell this stranger about the nightmares- he'd never even told Dad about them.

"Didn't sound like nothing."

Dean didn't say a word. He looked at the flamethrower, at Sam's wide open mouth, anywhere but at Bobby's face. The older hunter didn't even flinch. He just waited. Dean set his jaw stubbornly and waited right back. Bobby was the first one to break.

"Listen, kid. I know you don't know me, but I know you. You're the same as I was when I was your age- and something real bad happened to me back then. It was my fault. People got hurt. I still hate to think about it because I know that I could have done something to stop it. But you know what?"

Dean's eyes slowly rose up to meet Bobby's steady gaze. "What?"

"There is nothing I could do to change it. Life is life, son, and there ain't no changing the past once it's been done. You have to keep moving when things go south."

"But I-"

"The buts don't matter. You got a brother who's gonna look up to you whether you like it or not, and you have to make sure that boy likes what he sees when he's watching you."

At that, Dean withdrew, looking annoyed. He crossed his arms and pulled back from the old hunter, settling against the back of the couch with his legs folded up under him.

"You sound like my dad."

Bobby's eyebrows rose. "Yeah, well, I ain't. But I saw you two together tonight. He didn't let you out of his sight the whole time you were running around complaining about how boring my house is."

Dean flushed, looking uncomfortable. "You heard that?"

"Yeah. Look, my point is that he's on your tail, kiddo, and he's got your scent. You two are gonna be stuck with each other for a long, long, time. I can't say what you think of him, but I can see plain as day what he thinks of you. And you can't let what happened in the past hold you back from being here for him now."

Dean stared at the old hunter for a moment, startled at his sudden sympathy. He glanced at Sam, whose arms were flung wide across the cot, with one leg dangling off the edge. Bobby looked at the kid too, and found himself grinning slightly. He had a lot to live up to. Turning back to face Dean, he saw that the kid was watching him with a strange light in his eyes. Bobby sat back suddenly, looking alarmed. He gave Dean an uncomfortable slap on the back.

"There, you all right now?"

Dean stuck out his chin and nodded, as stubborn as he was short.

"Okay. You should probably get some rest." He got up to leave, but not before out of the corner of his eyes he saw the kid shrink back on the couch at the possibility of being left alone with the horrors in his head. Bobby made a turn to his desk and sank down in the chair behind it, shuffling papers around until he found something to scribble on. Dean stared. Bobby looked up at him and shrugged.

"What? I'm up. May as well get some work done while I'm here."

Dean rolled his eyes and lay back down, quietly relieved that he wasn't alone in the dark. Bobby sat at his desk reading up on the Japanese okami, finding himself relieved of the same.

BANG.

The morning light was streaming gray through the windows when a knock came at the door. Bobby sat up with a start, looking around groggily as he realized he was still at his desk covered in papers and whiskey. His eyes snapped to the two figures by his moth-eaten sofa. Dean was curled up on his side, back to the wall and his hand stretched out to touch Sam's. Sam was still spread-eagled across the entirety of the cot, his toes hanging half a foot from the floor-not that he seemed to mind. The knock came again, more insistent this time.

"Singer! Open up, it's John."

Bobby stood; sneaking past the two boys passed out in his living room, and was shocked to see John Winchester burst through the front door and into his hallway.

"John! What the hell do you think you're doin'?"

But the oldest Winchester flew past Bobby, running to where Dean was folded on the far end of the couch and shaking him roughly.

"Dean. Dean! Get up, we gotta go."

The kid's eyes snapped open, and he jumped up so fast you'd have thought someone had let off a gunshot in his ear. "Dad? What is it?"

"I got a lead. It's him this time, Dean. I can feel it. Get your brother and meet me at the car."

John turned to face Bobby, looking surprised to see him. The man looked half-wild with excitement, and a creepy sort of bloodlust shone in his eyes as he spoke.

"Look, Bobby. Thanks for watching them, but I just got a tip on Yellow-Eyes from a demon over in South Carolina. He's in New Hampshire with a bunch of others. I have to head in while the trail's hot, and having the boys here would put them in too much danger. We have to leave, now. Last I heard there were about sixteen demons headed up here."

Bobby gestured to one of the shotguns on the wall. "They don't have too much snap when faced with my décor. The boys can stay."

"Bobby, I have to go. I'm sorry I brought this on you, but I didn't even realize they were following me until I turned the corner to get up here. You've got about ten minutes, tops."

And after that, he was already halfway out the door. Dean had yanked a sluggish Sam from his nest of blankets and was pulling on the younger kid's jacket. Sam yawned and blinked owlishly at Bobby as his brother dragged him towards the front of the house.

Sixteen demons. Balls.

"John Winchester, you get your ass back here and clean up your own goddamned mess!" Bobby hollered. The guy didn't even turn around.

When there was no response, Bobby walked over to help Dean gather the bags on the stairs.

"You gonna be okay, son?" Bobby couldn't help but ask. The kid was playing Mr. Mom to a mad man and his kid brother.

"I'll be fine. Always am."

"Listen, kid: you ever need anything, anything at all, you call me. You got that? It doesn't matter what time or when. You need me, I've gotcha."

Someone had to say it.

Dean just looked up at Bobby with a shine in his eyes like he was some kind of Superman. And then he threw his arms around Bobby's middle, squeezing so hard that he thought the kid might end up popping a blood vessel.

"Thanks." Dean whispered. "Thanks for everything."

And with that, he let go just as quickly as he had grabbed on, tugged his brother out the door and was gone. Bobby stared out at the front yard, watching as the black Impala screeched around the corner with a cloud of dust rising fast behind it.

_Anytime, kid.__Anytime at all._


	2. The Stanford Complex

A knock on the door at three in the morning was never good. Bobby Singer hadn't been asleep, of course. Not tonight. Tonight was for research. And Scotch.

He downed the rest of the glass before heading for the door knowing it was probably Rufus come to check up on him, or (better yet) Sheriff Mills with _another_ search warrant. Hot damn, that woman was persistent. It made Bobby wonder how the hell she'd been married so long…the poor bastard was probably handcuffed to the altar.

Another knock came, this one harder and a little desperate sounding. That's when he got the sense that something was seriously wrong-Rufus would have already kicked down the door and Sheriff Mills would have started hollering his name by now. So it had to be someone, or _something_, else.

Bobby grabbed a shotgun and peered out from behind the front curtains carefully, jumping back when he saw a hulking shadow standing outside on the porch. Whatever it was, it was big. And…fluffy? He shoved two shells down the barrel of the gun and chambered the rounds with a _snap-crack _before he grabbed the door handle with his finger on the trigger and flung the door open, ready to fire. His eyes were already sighting a shot when the shaggy-haired kid turned around. Bobby stopped dead.

"Sam? What the hell?"

The kid had grown at least three feet since Bobby had seen him last, which was a little scary considering it had only been two months ago. He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, a dark purple bruise running down the side of his face (half hidden by the fact that the kid desperately needed a haircut), and he looked like he hadn't slept in days.

Bobby grabbed Sam's shoulder and pulled him inside, a knot of fear twisting in his gut.

"Jesus, son-you alright? Where's Dean? Where's your dad? Are they-?"

He couldn't finish the sentence. Instead, he steered Sam through the house to the living room, slowing when he stumbled over his own (now oversized) feet in exhaustion. Bobby let him sink down into a chair. He desperately wanted answers, but he clamped his mouth shut: he knew Sam would talk when he was ready. Right now the poor guy was bone-tired and as limp as a wet noodle, so he wouldn't make much sense anyway.

Sam looked half-wild. His eyes flicked to Bobby's face, and only when they focused there did he seem to relax. He grinned a little and croaked out,

"Got any whiskey?"

Bobby felt some of the tension leave him. Serving alcohol, he could handle. He was no bar wench, but to be fair Sam looked like he needed something a hell of a lot stronger than water. He plunked a glass down on the side table and filled it halfway before handing it over. Sam took a sip and grimaced, his bleary eyes clearing a little. Bobby waited.

Finally, Sam took a shaky breath.

"I got into Stanford. Full ride scholarship."

Bobby could not for the life of him figure out why that was bad.

"That's incredible! What are you doing here? You should be out celebrating."

"With who? My dad? Dean? They're working a case in Lake Silencio, Utah-some astronaut thing. And why celebrate? I'm not going."

"The hell you aren't. You've been talking about going to law school since you were thirteen. I know how much this matters to you. Why quit now?"

Sam laughed bitterly. "Because Dad doesn't want me to go. He nearly imploded when I told him."

"So you split." Bobby nodded as the pieces fell into place. This was all starting to make sense.

"That was four days ago. I just-I needed help. I don't know what to do."

"Do you want to go?"

Sam looked miserable. "More than anything."

"Then go."

"You know it's not that simple."

"What's he gonna do? He knows that every time he drags you out of there you're just going to go running back. He can't just tie you up in the car and leave you, and he isn't stupid enough to think otherwise."

"That won't stop him from trying."

"He can try all he wants to. You're eighteen, Sam. Legally, you can do what you want. If that's hunting, you could go solo. If it's school, you have every right to walk out on this life and never look back. It's up to you."

"He'll never let this happen."

"He doesn't have to _let _anything happen. Contrary to popular belief, John Winchester is not God. He needs to figure out that life is gonna move on without his permission. You want to go to college, go to college. Get yourself out of this ugly-ass life. But if you stay, make it because you _want_ to, not because you have to. It all comes down to that."

Sam took another drink as an undecided silence settled over the room, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the squeaking of crickets in the night outside. And then it was shattered by the sound of a motor roaring up the driveway. Bobby would have known the sound of that engine anywhere.

Balls.

Sam winced, apologetic for some reason. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this. I should go."

Bobby grabbed his shotgun off the desk and waved his hand at Sam's glass as car doors slammed outside. "Shut up and finish your whiskey."

Both of them downed their drinks as heavy boot treads hit the creaking floorboards of the porch. The crickets had gone silent, as if they could sense trouble coming. There was a blessed moment of peace before a booming voice rumbled throughout the house, practically shaking the damn rafters.

"Samuel Winchester! Quit hiding and get your ass out here!"

Bobby peered around the curtains, his gun nearly forgotten as he stared at the bear of the man that was John Winchester standing against the shadow of his porch railings. Sam ducked his head and made a move to get up with his eyes on his shoes. The older hunter planted the barrel of his gun on the kids shoulder and pushed him back down into the chair without even looking up at him.

"_Sit. Down._ You move from that spot and I'll shoot you myself."

Sam sat.

Bobby reached for the handle of the back door to pull it open, but he needn't have bothered-Dean was already halfway through it. Two months hadn't done him much more good than they had Sam: his cheekbones jutted sharply under his skin, and a shadow much darker than five o' clock colored his jaw. He looked haunted, (though to be honest, how else did hunters ever look?) his eyes hard with the flickering gaze of a man on the run. He looked straight down the muzzle of the shotgun poised between his eyes without even flinching and lowered it carefully with one hand until it pointed at the floor between their feet and saying only three words:

"Is he okay?"

Bobby didn't have to answer-Sam did it for himself.

"How did you find me?"

Instead of answering, Dean flew at his brother and nearly crushed the life out of him with a bone-splintering hug. Sam jerked away with a yelp, making Dean pull back worriedly and start firing where-the-hell-have-you-been's and you-scared-the-living-crap-out-of-me's between his probing for broken bones and checking for concussion. Sam was just in the middle of rolling his eyes when there was a tremendous bang from the front room and all three of them whipped around.

The aversion to knocking had to be genetic: John Winchester came crashing through the door, sending wood chips across the hall and leaving the sides hanging by brass shavings. The second he saw Sam, his expression darkened and he started to storm across the room towards the kid. Dean shoved himself between the two of them before he could get there, but one of Johns reeling fists smashed into his jaw and sent him sprawling against the wall. Dean slumped to the floor, dazed as blood dripped from his nose. Bobby jumped forward to grab John's shoulder before he could stop himself. John whirled around, reeking of Scotch and bad intentions. Seeing the murderous glint in his eyes gave Bobby a blast from the past that resulted in a lurching stomach and a much tighter grip on the shotgun in his hands.

The trigger rattled slightly and John's unfocused eyes flicked downward before a laugh escaped him. Sam looked petrified. John looked pissed.

"You gonna shoot me, Singer?" he sneered. "I'd like to see you try."

"Stepped too far this time, John. You need to walk away." Bobby was struggling to keep his voice even. This was a scene that was too close to home. This day, about 30 years ago now, this same thing had happened over a spilled glass of milk. Bobby had still been the one holding the gun.

"This is family business. You need to stay out of it." The Winchester's voice was flat despite the vague drunken slur. Bobby would admit that the man had a point (much as he despised the fact) but Sam had a look that was all too familiar.

"Stay out of it? I don't know if you noticed, Winchester, but _your_ ass just busted through _my_ door. You have business under my roof, you discuss it with me."

"You don't want to get involved in this."

"In my house I'll get involved wherever I damn well please! I don't want to shoot you in front of your own boys, but you take one more step and I will drop you like a log right here on this rug!"

John smirked. "You wouldn't."

Bobby hoisted the gun. "Try me." He snarled.

"Guys, stop it." Sam croaked. Dean grunted an assent and pushed himself up off the wall, wiping the blood from his nose while he planted himself squarely between his brother and the pair of half-wild hunters that circled each other with hackles raised. Bobby gestured to the door.

"Outside, John. We don't do this here." _Not in front of the boys._ On that, at least, they agreed. John Winchester backed away like a feral dog, never taking his eyes off the man standing in front of him and never letting the fire in his eyes dim. It was the eyes, Bobby decided- dark holes of hellfire and pitch and scotch-that made his gut twist and his hair stand on end. It was all so similar.

John backed on to the porch and into the salvage yard. Bobby followed him after glancing quickly at the boys.

The gun stayed up.

* * *

"You shouldn't have come."

Sam broke the silence after twenty minutes of waiting. Dean was sprawled out in the raggedy armchair across the room, spinning the chamber of Bobby's old revolver so that the bullets jingled. His eyes met Sam's with something like disbelief, but his voice was steady when he replied.

"You don't want to be found, genius boy, next time disable your GPS. I was able to hack you from Utah."

"But you had to tell him, didn't you?"

Dean sat up, popping the chamber out of the gun and scattering silver bullets across the table as he slammed the revolver down with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Are you kidding me? Sam, you could have died. You look like crap, and you sure wouldn't have come here if you were doing _well._ He went postal when he found out you were gone again."

"Yeah, well, he would have gone postal either way." Sam scrubbed his hands over his face as Dean snorted.

"What, about the college thing? Sammy, it doesn't matter-"

"It matters!" Sam exploded. "It has always mattered to me, don't you see that? This is my chance to get away from all of it, Dean- I don't want to be like you! I can't spend my life hunting something that we will never find. The truck stops and the skeevy motel rooms and the constant running, always running from _whatever, _I can't do it anymore! I want to be normal, with a life and a job and-"

"A family?" Dean growled. "Yeah, well, tough nuts. We are your family, Sam-and we will always be your family no matter how hard you try to get away from us."

"You sound like Dad." Sam muttered. Dean brought his hand down on the table so hard it made the now-empty whiskey glass rattle and a sheaf of papers flutter to the floor.

"You're damn right I do! This is it, Sam. This is us. I am sorry we weren't able to have some apple pie life in Smalltown, U.S.A, but I tried. God knows I tried, and I am sorry that it wasn't ever good enough for you, but running out on us isn't going to fix anything. Now we sure as hell didn't choose this life and it would be sick to say it chose us; which is why I'm wondering what you expect me to do here, Sam."

"I don't know; how about support your brother?" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up and standing so that he towered over Dean. Dean sat back. When the hell had Sammy gotten so _tall_? And when had he gotten so damned stubborn? Dean opened his mouth to say something, letting it hang open for a minute while he tried to find the words, but all he could manage to do was snap his teeth together with a click before he said something he would regret. There was a long moment of quiet, and Sam stood there glowering with his chest heaving like he used to after throwing tantrums all those years ago. Dean looked at him, remembering that getting that same look from a shaggy-haired six year old who didn't want to go to bed on time when Dad was off hunting. Dean hadn't learned not to bother arguing with the kid for a while-he was a born lawyer no matter how much Dad didn't want to admit it-but those eyes hadn't changed. _I dare you to tell me I'm wrong_, they challenged. It used to be cute. Now it was just infuriating.

"Support my brother." He finally said. "Right." His eyebrows scrunched together as he rolled a bullet across the coffee table without looking up. "Tell me something, Sammy: when have I ever not been there for you?"

Silence.

It was true, Sam would have admitted. Dean had always been there-teaching him how to ride a bike, how to fight, how to flirt (okay, maybe he hadn't gotten full hold of that one yet) and how to shoot. He had offered to be the one to dig up graves while Sam held a flashlight and balanced an SAT study book on his knees on those freezing September nights in no name towns. Dean, not Dad, had been there for everything-his attempts at playing soccer, his fifth grade graduation (though maybe that had just been an excuse for Dean to skip the last day of school) and his first high school dance. And sure, maybe most guys actually threw footballs around instead of running around trying to bean each other in the head with rosaries, but it had always been the two of them against the rest of the world: Dean the protector and Sam his charge.

But it was funny just how easily Dean forgot that Sam had been there for him too. Who had stayed up with him until two-thirty in the morning helping him study for his GED exam? Which one of them had scrubbed the blood out of countless old T-shirts after drunken fights with the boyfriends of girls that Dean really shouldn't have been screwing around with anyway? What about the times Sam covered for Dean when he had tried to go hunting solo, and cleaned up the broken bones that resulted from those fiascos? It wasn't a contest, but if it had been, Dean would have been hard pressed to find a time that Sam hadn't been there for him too.

"Well?" Dean persisted. "Wide open here, bro."

"You don't have to be a jerk about it." Sam said quietly.

"What, so you can be a bitch about deserting us but I can't ask you to stay?"

"You're asking me to do something when you know I can't."

"You could, Sam. It's going to be okay for us-I know it will. We're always okay as long as we stick together. The Three Musketeers, remember?"

Sam shook his head. "I can't do this anymore. This life, this job, this family…none of it is right. And I don't want it."

The air in the room went from chilly to downright frigid. Dean's eyes snapped up, as cold as steel and as hard as flint, but Sam could see the flash of hurt behind his rush of indignation. He opened his mouth, but then snapped it closed as voices sounded outside-one of them Bobby's, the other John's.

The door opened, and John stumbled in soaking wet and looking considerably less bleary. Both boys stood at attention as Bobby walked in behind him with the shotgun still held at the ready. Both men looked at the boys with puzzled expressions as the tension in the room fell over them. Sam backed down, cowed by the dripping tower of John Winchester, but Dean held steady and set his jaw.

"Get your stuff and meet me at the car." John growled. Dean picked up the canvas duffel he had left last time they stayed over at Bobby's, the last time the car broke down. Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Bobby shook his head.

"Just Dean."

Sam's face lit up. "Really?"

Dean slammed the bag on the table and shoved his gun in, closing it up so fast that the zipper screeched.

"Congratulations, Sam. You're free."

And with that, Dean turned his back on his brother. Johns face twisted into a tight sneer as he lumbered past Sam.

"You walk out on us, don't bother coming back." His voice was low, but sincere. Sam drew himself up and stuck out his chin with his eyes resolute.

"Fine by me."

Bobby pushed himself between the two, the shotgun still in his hands and fire in his eyes as he stared up at John. "One more word out of you and I'll pump you so full of led you won't be getting up. Get off of my property and don't come back."

A low growl preceded John's exit through the half of the door that was still swinging in the breeze, and with a roar the Impala screeched out on to the highway with its rear lights blazing red through the dust rising fast behind it.

Sam and Bobby watched it disappear.


	3. As Good As Gone

**Author's Note- Hello all! First things first: many thanks and gallons of coffee (a writer's blessing) to those of you who have reviewed, faved, or followed my little story. It means the universe to me. To the non-FF members C1 and Nicole-neither of whom I was able to contact over message- your lovely reviews made my day! Lamentably, this chapter is a bit short due to the fact that I had exams over the course of this week, but I promise to make up for it next week with an extra long one. As always, feel free to place constructive criticisms or comments below- I relish the opportunity to make this fic as good as I can for you guys. Have a great one. Do something amazing. ****-R.**

Dean couldn't take the screaming any more.

He'd been reading-well, _trying_ to read-on Bobby's couch for half an hour. 30 brutal freaking minutes of listening to his brother scream for help from somebody, anybody. It was hell. Or something close to it. Dean could handle torture for days, months, even years if he had to. But hearing Sammy get locked away with his worst nightmares on steroids was almost more than he could handle. Worse yet, Dean was the one who had put him there.

To emphasize the point, another gut-wrenching yell came echoing up from below, and Dean guiltily found himself wishing for the moment Sam would scream himself hoarse. He knew he was protecting Sammy from himself, and the demon bitch that had gotten him hooked in the first place. But this- this was bad. For Sam's entire life, Dean had been there to protect him: from demons, from ghosts, from nightmares, from Dad…he'd do anything to keep his brother safe. The question was: how was he supposed to protect Sam from what was inside of him? He didn't even-

Dean jumped as Bobby plunked down a glass of whiskey on the table next to him and took a seat in the old armchair.

"You look like you need that."

"Thanks." Dean mumbled, throwing back the whole thing. Bobby raised an eyebrow as he slammed the glass back on the table.

"You okay?"

Dean laughed humorlessly. "Oh, I'm peachy. This whole Apocalypse thing is like a vacation in the flipping Bahamas. Another?"

Bobby hesitated, but poured another glass. Dean gulped it down and then grimaced as Sam started yelling his name.

"I need thicker walls." Bobby mused drily. Dean put his head down on the table with a dull thunk.

"How long did you say this would last?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but we haven't actually dealt with anything like this before. He could be like this for days, weeks- if he comes out of it at all."

Dean went silent. Sam did not.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Wait it out. I told you, this ain't gonna be quick, and it ain't gonna be pretty. All we can do is hope for the best."

"I need another drink."

"Take it from an old drunk, kiddo... It won't fix anything."

"I can't do it, Bobby. I can't be the stoic one this time. My little brother is down there asking me, _begging me_, to save him from all the crap inside his head and I can't do a damned thing about it. He could die. He could die all alone in that room down there thinking that we don't care-that we just gave up on him. And I know he thinks I'm brave. I know he thinks I'm some kind of hero. But the truth is that I am scared out of my mind right now. I'm freaked out because we have to save the goddamned world again and I don't know what to do, my brother is locked in a basement recovering from a demon addiction, and I'm up here trying to figure out how to put him back together and stop the planet from falling apart. So yeah. I'm gonna be needing another glass of that."

Dean finished, looking miserable. Bobby sighed and shook his head.

"Okay, so maybe you could use a drink after all. But eat something first- you didn't touch dinner."

"I can't eat with Sam like-"

"You can and you will. The last thing I need is two invalids on my hands. So eat. Or make yourself useful."

Bobby slid a shotgun across the table to Dean, who looked up in surprise. A gun? Really? Dean spilled all his guts and fears and depression and Bobby handed him a _shotgun?_Wow. Just wow. Bobby rolled his eyes.

"It's not loaded, ya idjit. And it won't be until it's clean, so get to it."

Dean looked at the rifle and then back at Bobby's face. He knew. Bobby knew it better than anyone else could-people died all the time, and they didn't usually come back like the Winchesters had a tendency to either. Gone was gone and Sam was as good as gone right now. This was no time for chick-flick moments. The best thing to do was what Bobby had always done: count the casualties, clean the weapons, and soldier on. Dean reached for a brush and took a breath. Sam screamed.


	4. Six Hour Showdown (Part One)

**A/N: Came up with this quick idea of Sam and Dean's first time going to separate schools and I simply could not wait until next week to share it with you all. This is a two-parter and I** **will be updating as soon as I can with the second half, but until then part one will hopefully tide you over. Feel free to review, criticize, and comment below with any corrections or questions. I am willing to take requests for future chapters of this fic collection! (hint hint nudge nudge) Have some coffee. Think about it. Gank some evil SOB's. Then get back to me. -R.**

"Now, anybody hits you, you punch first and ask questions later. Got it?"  
"Come on, Dean. Its third grade, not Fight Club."

Sam looked nervously from Bobby to Dean and then back again. His stomach jumped-and this time it wasn't because of Bobby's driving. The truck hit another shuddering bump and threw both boys half a foot in to the air.

"Damn speed bumps." Bobby growled under his breath. "We're late."

Dean glanced back at Sam. He seemed worried for some reason, and that was never good. Dean wasn't afraid of anything. Bobby's eyes met Sam's in the rearview mirror before the clanking truck turned into the school, a huge brick building that looked more like a jailhouse than anything else.

"Okay, kiddo. This is your stop."

The truck came to a shuddering halt on the curb, the brakes squealing in protest. Outside, people were already staring. Sam slid down in the backseat of the rusty pickup, avoiding the curious gazes of the kids gathered outside the front doors. This was not going to end well.

"Bobby, do I have to?"

Dean turned to Bobby. "We could skip out. We could show Sammy that game you taught me- the one with the rocks in the cups."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "You're not skippin' school to play Tiddlywinks with your brother. I told your Dad I'd take you two in and that's what I'm doing. Sam, get your bag."

The passenger door swung open with a squeal that could have broken plate glass. Everyone turned to look at the shuddering pickup truck and its three homely riders. Sam's stomach roiled dangerously as his feet hit the ground, and he felt himself blanch. Oh, God. Please don't let him throw up in front of all these people he would have to live with for the next three weeks. Or at least he hoped it would be three. Dad had promised that this time it would be short.

A hand was on his shoulder all of the sudden, making Sam practically jump out of his skin. It was Bobby, pulling him gently aside.

"C'mere, kid."

Sam knew Bobby wouldn't do anything embarrassing- not like the mom he now saw by a minivan a few feet away, who seemed to be trying to weld her kid's hair into submission as he squirmed desperately to get away from her. That diverted some of the other stranger's attention-for now, at least. But the fact still remained: he was going to be sick all over his new school shoes. Bobby kneeled down next to Sam, straightening the flipped collar of his denim jacket.

"What's going on with you today, Sam? Usually you're the first one out the door, but this morning I practically had to carry you outside. You barely touched your breakfast, and don't say it was because you didn't like it- I've seen you attack whole boxes of Lucky Charms."

Sam looked at his feet. Bobby sighed and looked back at the truck, where Dean was hanging out the window to try and hear what they were saying. The realization dawned on Bobby's face as he glanced back and forth between the two boys.

"This is the first time you've been out on your own, isn't it? Just you?"

Sam nodded, feeling vaguely guilty without knowing why.

"It's Dean. You're worried about him."

Sam looked up, startled. "What?"

Him, worry about Dean? Dean, with his fearless swagger and quick fists? Why would he worry about his older brother who wasn't afraid of anything, ever?

Bobby pressed on. "I'm worried too. He could get himself into a whole load of trouble without you to watch out for him."

Sam shot a doubtful glance at the truck, and caught Dean trying to look vague and unconcerned before he nearly fell out the window attempting to eavesdrop. Back to Bobby, who looked like he was more worried than either of the boys. He knew what was really going on.

"Bobby, what if-"

He held up a hand, butting in before Sam got too far. "Don't start that 'what if' crap. You're gonna do fine. Look at me, Sam."

When he didn't, Bobby shook him a little and brought his feet back to earth. "Look at me."

Their eyes locked, blue to brown, and Bobby clasped Sam's shoulder. "You're both going to be okay. I promise you. Its six hours. Just six hours, and I'll be waiting for you right at this spot. But until then, you have to show them what you've got. So, you are gonna draw yourself up like the man you are, march in there, and you aren't gonna let anybody give you trouble. You got it?"

Another unsure glance at the truck cab, where Dean was beginning to look desperate. The front of the school was starting to clear out now, and the bell would ring any minute. Sam took a breath, and then nodded.

"I got it." He affirmed. Bobby grinned.

"Okay. I'll see you at four. Try not to kill anybody before I get back."

Sam pulled his backpack up onto his shoulders and started to walk towards the doors. Before he grabbed the handle to go in, he turned around quickly to catch the boys before they left. Bobby leaned against the side of the truck, watching him go. Dean waved tentatively, holding up two fingers in their salute. Sam saluted back, and smiled a little in spite of himself. _You're both going to be okay._For now, at least, he believed it.

Six hours. It was a start.

Sam grabbed the handle and yanked the door open. The kid whose mom had been aggressively combing his hair had managed to escape, and was frantically trying to scrub a lipstick mark from his cheek as he ran up to the double door entrance. His hair had rebelled again, and was sticking up in about seven different directions. Not watching where he was going, the kid smacked into Sam full force and went flying, books scattering everywhere.

"S-s-sorry." He stammered, trying to pull his jacket sleeve up as well as dive past Sam to grab a book before it hit the mud.

"It's okay. Want a hand?" Sam knelt to grab a folder still in the packaging, and handed it over. The poor guy was out of breath even as he looked back at his mom, who was still waving.

"Thanks. I'm Derek, by the way."

"I'm Sam."

"My mom was crazy this morning-it's like she thinks I'm leaving forever or something. Families, you know?"

Sam looked back at the rusty pickup that was pulling out on to the drive that seemed miles away and grinned. "Yeah, I know."

"You ready for this? They're gonna eat me alive. " Derek said matter-of factly, trying to smooth down the hair that puffed up even as he stuck it back where it belonged. Sam didn't doubt it, but he hauled the kid's books up in his arms and looked at him.

"Nah. We'll be okay. Just stick together, right?"

Derek looked surprised. "Yeah, okay. Together."

_You're both gonna be okay. __I promise you._

**TBC**


	5. Six Hour Showdown (Part Two)

**A/N: Part two! My sincere apologies for not having this up earlier-there were bits in the middle that just didn't sound right and I was forced to tweak. Hopefully, I will have another few chapters up this week for you all to enjoy-please remember I am still open to requests. Feel free to drop a line. Or a carrier pigeon. Or whatever. Thanks for reading. -R.**

_SIX HOURS LATER_

"Where is he, Bobby?"

Bobby looked at the dash clock in the truck, his eyebrows crinkling together. Sam had been watching it change since they got here, eyes flicking from the numbers to the doors, and back and forth again. Dean should have been outside the school twenty minutes ago. Bobby pulled the keys out of the ignition, kicking the stuck driver's side door open with an ear-splitting groan and tossing the keys to Sam.

"Come on. Something's up." Bobby climbed out and stalked up to the front doors. He was just about to open them when he heard chanting coming from the back of the building. It was a familiar sound- a bloodthirsty chorus that grew louder as Sam and Bobby rounded the corner to the tennis courts and saw a group of kids clustered on the far end, crowded so close that what was in the middle couldn't be seen-but Sam and Bobby already knew. They ran towards the horde of kids, Bobby's face darkening like a thunderhead. He shoved his way through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea once they saw his expression. Sam followed, a little afraid of what Bobby was going to do when he reached the epicenter of the fight. Judging from the look on his face, it would not be good.

In the center, three kids were rolling around on the ground in the dirt-one younger kid being pummeled by two tall ones. Dust was kicked up as Bobby reached in and grabbed the shoulders of the two older kids and yanked them off.

Dean lay crushed at the bottom of the pile, blood dripping from his nose and running into the dirt. Sam leapt over to help him to his feet but Dean shoved him away roughly, landing Sam on his butt in the dust. Bobby took his arm and dragged him up harshly, staring daggers at the surrounding kids before passing Dean's limp form over to Sam, who stumbled under his brother's weight. "What the hell do you think you're doin'?" He snarled at the surrounding horde. "Get the hell outta here before I hang you all from the nearest goddamned telephone pole!"

Sam didn't think he'd ever seen a group of thirteen year olds move so fast-they scuttled away and disappeared like cockroaches through a motel room drain. All except two. Bobby caught the kids that had been beating on Dean by their collars and slammed them up against the chain link fence with a teeth-rattling clang that made Sam wince.

"You wanna fight? We can fight." He growled, pressing them into the links so hard that the fence bent outwards and creaked with the pressure. The two cornered bullies struggled desperately, but Bobby only gripped them tighter.

"He started it!" One of them squealed.

"He's a kid, damn it! You want to fight you pick on someone your own goddamn size, you cowards! Now, I'm gonna turn around, and by the time I count to three your asses better be spots on the horizon or we're gonna have a bigger problem. You want that?"

"No!" The boys squeaked in unison, squirming to get free of the iron grip around their necks.

"No _what?"_ Bobby's voice was so placidly pissed that Sam's stomach tightened-and he wasn't even the one being choked to death.

"Sir!" The one on the right yelped. "No _sir_!"

His dopey counterpart managed to choke out something to that effect, and Bobby's fists came undone without warning, sending both idiots crashing to the ground on their hands and knees. They were in such a hurry to get gone that they practically knocked each other out running in the wrong direction. Sam couldn't help but snort-they were like characters out of a cartoon scrambling to get out of the way of the gigantic anvil that was whistling towards their heads. They didn't do a very good job of it. Bobby was already on two. With a screech, one of them finally took off like the Roadrunner down the street, and his buddy followed suit. Bobby glowered after them for a second before rushing over to relieve Sam of his brother's heavy slumped body, slapping Dean's cheek lightly.

"Dean. Kid, are you with me?" Sam was startled to see a tear wash through the blood crusted onto his brother's face.

"G'way." He managed to mutter thickly through crimson coated teeth. "M'fine."

Bobby hauled Dean up and started walking towards the truck with both boys in tow. "Shut up. I'm not too peachy with you at the moment either, ya idjit."

Bobby strapped Dean into the back of the truck, and Sam clambered in to sit beside him. He was a mess- there was blood everywhere. In his hair, dribbling from his nose, and oozing from his grazed knuckles. His left eye was already almost swollen shut, and Sam could see a dark bruise leaking out over the side of his face where it had been slammed into the asphalt. Bobby handed Sam a grease rag and gestured for him to clean off what he could, and then went around to start the truck with a rumble and the choking of an overturned engine. Sam went to swipe some of the red from his brother's face, but Dean slapped his hand away with a surprising amount of energy for someone who'd just had the snot kicked out of him. Sam got the message and set the rag in his brother's lap, then turned to look out the window. When Bobby finally spoke his voice still had a hint of a growl left over in it.

"What the hell were you thinkin', getting yourself pummeled like that? What did they say?"

There was a heavy sniffle from the passenger side, and Sam winced. Anything but the sniffle. The sniffle meant Dean was crying. It took a lot to make Dean cry, too much for Sam to fix-he hated it when Dean cried. Bobby's eyes were lasers in the rearview mirror as he looked back at the two boys, but Sam just focused on looking out the window so he didn't have to look at Dean and know he couldn't do anything. Bobby kept pressing.

"Well? You got something to say for yourself?"

"They were talking about Mom."

"What?" Bobby's growl went from pissed to perplexed in about six seconds flat.

"We did this dumb group read in history class. I was supposed to go, but everyone was looking at me and I froze up. So one of these assholes-"

"Hey." Bobby warned, bushy eyebrows quirking. Dean shrugged.

"It's true. But anyway, he sits up real quick and starts talking about how I probably can't read because they don't have schools in the cardboard box where I live."

"So you fought him?" Bobby asked incredulously. Sam nodded-even for Dean, it was kind of a stupid reason to have the tar whacked out of him by bullies. Even when they went to school together, there was a lot of talk about how ragged they looked: the shaggy hair, the occasional bloodstains on their ripped jeans. Both boys had learned early to shrug it off, and fast. Reacting just made you a target.

Dean shook his head at both of them, accidentally flinging a drop of blood onto Sam's hand. Sam grimaced and wiped his finger on his brother's pants, leaving a reddish stain on what he knew was the only clean pair of jeans he had left. Dean glared. The tears stopped. Sam sat back, satisfied.

"I fought him because after that he said I looked familiar. He kept on squinting at my face like he knew me. Finally I just asked him what the hell he was staring at and he said-he said-" Dean's voice got tight with anger, and his fists bunched so tightly that the fresh scabs on his knuckles pulled apart and oozed onto the rag in his lap.

"What?" Sam couldn't help but ask.

"He told me that he recognized my face because I looked just like my mother when she shook her-"

He glanced over at Sam surreptitiously.

"I went for him, but the teacher yanked me off before I could get a hit in. Then she made me eat lunch with her like some girl because she was afraid I would try to beat him up in the cafeteria. It was fine until we were all waiting for our rides. He found me outside and got in my face, talking about how I was too chicken to fight him. I told him I could kick his ass any day of the week. And I did, for a while."

"Until he brought back up." Bobby sighed. There was a long moment of silence while he tried to figure out what the hell to say. Good job? Was the kid not supposed to defend his mother's memory? It was stupid of him to go against two kids at once and even stupider to think that he could win, but not everything had been his fault. He was brazen. And proud. And a damn good kid. He would make one hell of a hunter, if that's what he ended up doing. God help the poor sonofabitch that insulted Dean Winchester. And heaven help the moron who loved him.

"Boy, you are the biggest- I can't believe you." He sounded more surprised than disappointed. Sam looked over at Dean.

"What are we gonna tell Dad?" He wasn't going to like this at all. Dean would probably have gun cleaning duty for a month, not to mention Dad increasing his combat training. If he came out of a sixth grade fistfight looking like this, how the heck was he supposed to fend off a monster?

"The truth." Bobby grumbled. "Your Daddy ain't stupid. You look like you got put through a meat grinder."

"You don't _have _to tell him about this." Dean wheedled. Sam snorted-Dean was sounding like himself again, albeit with the muffled speech pattern of a broken nose and a swollen lip.

"No, _I_ don't. You do." And with that, Bobby turned up the radio and they were on their way home.


	6. The Reason To Stay

_Thump-chink. __Thump-chink. __Thump-chink._

The sound of Deans hobbled pacing was starting to drive Sam insane. He'd been at it for twenty minutes straight now, pacing back and forth in front of the door while they waited for Bobby to get back from his food run. **The Tulpa, commonly known as the Tibetan thought-form or "phantom", has a distant cousin called the-** _Thump-chink_. Sam's gaze flicked up to Dean. Dean didn't notice.

**The Tulpa, commonly known as the Tibetan thought-form or "phantom", has a distant- **_Thump-chink._

**The Tulpa, commonly known as the Tibetan-**The crutches squeaked again, and Sam looked up from his book with an exasperated sigh.

"Hey, Twitch."

_Thump-chink._

"Mmph?" Dean sounded distracted.

"You're making me dizzy. You want to sit?"

Dean conveniently ignored the question and continued to pace. "He should have been back by now."

"Who, Bobby? Maybe there's traffic. He's probably fine." Sam shrugged. He was pretty sure the old hunter could hold his own against Leviathans-he would run them over without a second thought if they got in his way-but the cripple didn't look convinced. If anything he just seemed antsier when he thought about it. The pacing sped up-_Clink-thud, clink-thud, clink-thud._

"The nearest town is twenty minutes away. Factor in the time for food-about thirty if he was really taking his time, right?-and the trip back; you have about an hour and ten. It's been _two hours_, Sam. Something's up."

"We're in the middle of nowhere, Dean. What's the worst that could happen?"

It was true. They were in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and after six days there had been no signs of any Leviathans. But a Winchester should have known better than to ask what could go wrong.

"The worst that could happen? Sam, we're in the middle of a freaking war, against monsters that won't die." He growled. "The worst has already happened: we lost Bobby. Somehow, he managed to save our asses again, but next time we won't be so lucky. Lucky isn't how our lives work. I won't lose him again. Especially not to those black blooded sumbitches."

By now, the pacing had stopped, and the full force of Dean's irritation was directed at Sam.

"We already lost Cas. I just almost lost you again. I can't do this without him, Sammy. I just can't. And if something's happened to him, if he's out there dead or wounded or worse, I have to just sit here and wait it out-because right now, I am absolutely _useless._"

"And if you keep standing on that leg of yours, you'll be a hell of a lot worse than useless."

Dean whirled around as Bobby came through the door with his arms full of paper bags. Sam stood up to help, gripping the table when the room tipped. Bobby eyed the bruise on Sam's head suspiciously, but didn't say a word, thank God. Dean followed the two over to the kitchen, his crutches screeching with torture.

"Bobby, where the hell have you been?"

The hunter shrugged. "There was traffic."

Even though he wasn't facing him, Sam knew Bobby was lying. Dean knew it too, and he didn't sound too happy about it.

"What, did you get held up by Smokey the Bear? There's no traffic out here in the boonies."

"Does this look like the Inquisition to you? Sit down before you hurt yourself."

"Bobby, I-"

"I took the time to find you pie, Gimpy. Ass. Couch. Now."

Dean eyed the plastic container with contempt. It was a bribe, and he knew it. His gaze flicked from the pecan pie to the grizzled hunter's face. Sam snorted. His poor brother looked so conflicted between his two great loves- food and family- but finally the pie won out. After shooting Bobby a surly look from under his eyebrows, Dean took the carton under one arm and turned as flippantly as he could on his busted heel.

"We will finish this conversation later."

And with that, he clunked off to the couch, muttering under his breath like a disgruntled soccer mom. Bobby shook his head at Deans retreating figure before he pulled a bunch of bananas and a jar of peanut butter out of the brown bag on the counter, tossing them to Sam.

"What about you, Rocky? You doing okay?"

Sam shrugged and cracked the top off of his banana, watching as Bobby stuck a case of beers in the fridge. He hadn't noticed it before, but all of the sudden Bobby looked so much older than he had just last week- sort of shrunken.

"Bobby?"

"Yep?" He sounded distracted.

"About your house-I'm sorry."

Bobby turned around, eyebrows knitted. "What the hell are you sorry for, son? You didn't torch the place."

"I know, but it's our fault they ended up there."

"That's bull and you know it. Honestly, I'm just happy you two idjits are all right."

"Thanks to you."

Sam remembered waking up in that little back bedroom with a pounding headache and foggy vision. All he'd been able to see was the blue blur of a baseball cap. His body had been like lead. The last time, he'd felt this crappy, he'd been strapped to a bed in the panic room at Bobby's, delusional with the fever and flamingly racked off of demon blood. Instinctively, Sam had shot upwards but unfortunately the floor had tipped to become the ceiling and the whole world just sort of slid sideways.

"Whoa, take it easy."

It had been Bobby's hands that hauled Sam back to the real world.

"Bobby?" He'd croaked, the effort of talking making his vision ricochet with black spots. This wasn't possible. If Bobby was dead, did that mean he was dead too? He knew it couldn't hurt this much-being dead didn't hurt this much usually.

"Damn it, boy. Keep still."

"Am I dead?" The words sounded wrong echoing in the flaming pit of agony that was his skull.

"No such luck, sweetheart." That voice wasn't Bobby's, and it made Sam's stomach plummet to his feet. Another blurry face swam into view above his own, and he remembered the darkness lifting in the back of that ambulance before the same face had grinned at him.

_"__Sure, maybe I'm not real. Nobody's perfect. __But I'm not going anywhere, Sam."_

The eyes that slammed into focus above Sam's sealed the deal.

Lucifer.

He was the only clear thing in this world of fog and hurt-and he was here for Sam while he couldn't fight back.

"Hiya, Sam." Watching Satan grin was sickening, like hearing somebody's bones break one by one. "I do have to point out the irony here: your little Leviathan was able to screw up your head more than the devil could. But this is even better- now I'm the only thing that's real for you."

By now Sam was desperately struggling to get away from him, to be anywhere but here, but the whole room was going black again and the darkness was coming up to slam him in the face like a punch and just before he passed out he heard that voice again, taunting.

And he knew it wasn't over.

"Sweet dreams, Sammy."

* * *

He'd woken up again in a cold sweat out of dreams of blood and fire. His head was still hammering, but he could see now- probably thanks to the icy adrenaline he could feel dripping through his veins. Lucifer was gone, but an even worse hallucination was in his place.

Bobby sat in an armchair a few feet away from the bed, reading an old book.

_Lucifer._

The thought was instantaneous- Sam scrambled backwards so fast he fell off the bed, landing hard on the wooden floor. Bobby jumped up and rushed over to land on top of Sam, holding his arms back.

"Sam! Damn it, son, look at me!"

"Not real. You're not real." Sam gasped wildly and struggled, trying to kick his way free. Not-Bobby increased the pressure on Sam's arms, pressing down until he couldn't move at all. Sam panicked and started to thrash around on the floor, nearly knocking himself out with the effort.

"Get off! Get off of me!"

"Look at me, Sam! I'm not dead. Come on, boy, focus on me. That's it."

Bobby pressed Sam's hand to his cheek. Sam froze: as impossible as it seemed, there was Bobby. He looked exhausted and burnt out, but he was alive.

"Bobby?"

"Morning, sunshine. Come on," he grunted as he hauled Sam back to his feet. "Let's take a look at you."

Bobby sat Sam down on the edge of the bed gingerly and then growled as he peeled back the bandage on the younger hunter's forehead. Sam winced as he felt something warm-probably blood- run down the side of his face.

"Sorry about that. I thought you were having another seizure, so I pinned you."

"Seizure?"

"Yep. You've already busted three stiches." Bobby wiped away some blood. "Make that four."

"What happened?"

"From what I can tell, you got cracked in the melon with a tire iron. Dean got you both to the hospital-"

"Dean!" Sam shot up and instantly regretted it as his blue blobs crowded his vision. Bobby shoved the woozy kid's shoulder back down on the bed and gave him a look. Sam ignored him. "Where is he? Is he okay?"

"Sit still. He's got a broken leg, but he'll be fine. He's just sleeping off the morphine."

Bobby gestured out the door at the living room, where Sam could see a hand hanging off the side of the couch. Quiet snoring sounded from Dean's end of the cabin, and a familiar spiky head was peeking over the arm of the ragged sofa.

"The morphine knocked him out pretty good." Bobby noted. "That didn't keep his stubborn ass from insisting on helping me get you inside, but as soon as we got you safe he just collapsed. He's been out cold for a few hours now-poor kid's fried."

In response to that, Dean grumbled and rolled over, mumbling something incomprehensible.

"So what's the damage?" Sam asked, and then flinched as Bobby pressed a fresh wad of gauze to the dripping gash on his forehead.

"Well, you two are gonna be out of the game for a while. A few weeks at least, with that cast on Dean and this concussion on you. But we're safe for now."

Sam believed him, and they had been safe. But Sam didn't believe it now- Bobby only lied when something was very, very wrong. Again Sam thought of the relief that had flooded him when he'd felt Bobby's hands on his shoulders, and the sharpness of the distrust that had pierced him when he realized that Bobby should have been dead.

The old hunter was alive-but how? He would never make a crossroads deal, he wasn't that stupid. Sam stared hard at Bobby's back as he stooped to put a box of borax under the sink before turning around.

"Sam, you with me?" Bobby snapped his fingers, bringing him back to earth. Sam shook himself slightly and banished the thought.

"Yeah. Sorry." He tried his best to look normal, but his gaze ended up wandering to the living room where Dean was pretending to pay attention to the Spanish soap opera playing on the television as he shoveled down bites of pie. His eyes flicked over to Sam's and held his gaze. Each knew what the other was thinking: something was up. And they were going to find out what if it killed them.


	7. A Darker Direction

**!WARNING: Torture fic follows. Adjust accordingly!**

**A/N: Before we continue, a quick note on muses: they are some of the least reliable beings I have ever had the misfortune to work with, and yet if I renounce them my livelihood is a moot point. This universe. It irks me. My sincerest apologies for not having this piece up sooner. I promise the next will be more timely.**

**What follows is a requested whump piece for user MarburyBlur, whose support has been indispensable throughout this whole process. I shower her with writer's blessings and thank her for her kind reviews on every. Single. Chapter. MB, since day one of this little story, you have been a wonderful guide to the world of fanfic. May your pen never leak. Enjoy! -R.**

It wasn't a damn coven. Bobby Singer cursed loudly, slamming the ancient tome on Greek mythology shut so that his coffee cup tipped off the edge of the desk and shattered on the hardwood in a mess of ceramic and searing hot black. He didn't bother to stop and clean it up. There wasn't time.

The signs had all been there- the feathers at the crime scenes, the fact that every single one of the victims had some kind of karma coming to them- and Bobby had been too obtuse to put the pieces together. He threw his jacket into the passenger seat and started up the Camaro with a roar, peeling out of the driveway. Dean was still in Wisconsin cleaning up after the job. The job that they all thought had been finished. A simple shoot-and-run. They had been so relieved to have an easy case that none of them had thought to dig any deeper in to the fact that some of the evidence just didn't fit. And now Dean was alone, without John or Sam to cover his back, stuck in the town of Madison with the goddess of revenge.

Balls.

Bobby punched the gas.

* * *

This chick had gotten prettier after three drinks, Dean thought appreciatively. And she hadn't been bad-looking to begin with. He wasn't really into the whole biker-badass vibe, but she actually worked it pretty well with dark hair that hung in tight curls across her leather-clad shoulders, and a studded belt slung haphazardly along her hips like a holster from a Western. To be fair, there wasn't too much fabric around her waist that needed holding up. She bent over the pool table and her curvaceous backside stretched taut under tight black jeans as she sized up the rack of balls, sliding the cue along her fingertips. Dean leaned over to check the view and almost fell off the barstool he was sitting on, righting himself quickly as she turned to look at him with a bemused grin. Her eyes roved up and down like he was some kind of a challenge.

"Wanna play?" She asked, the question picking up at the end like an invitation. Her voice was throaty, a mix between a growl and a whisper.

_Oh God, yes._ Dean thought. But then there was John, expecting him in Richmond at seven the next day- he'd have to get on the highway at six a.m. to make it on time. He sighed and took one last long look at that fine bottom. "Can't tonight, sweetheart. I've got to hit the road pretty early tomorrow-as a matter of fact, I should be turning in now."

He went to toss his card on the counter before standing up on legs that were only slightly shaky for the amount of liquor he'd just consumed and turning to go. But there she was again, in his way. Never had a roadblock been so appealing. Her eyes were a thick misty gray that mingled with the smoke clouding the bar, and her lips were painted a ruby red that quirked at the corners in a way that made Dean want to kiss her until he couldn't breathe. Or maybe that was just the whiskey talking.

"Oh, come on. Just one game." She purred, placing a hand on his thigh. "I'll make it worth your while."

Dean gulped hard and glanced down at the dark red nails that were digging into his leg. He looked back up at her and found himself caught in an utterly hypnotic gaze that pierced his with a spark of intelligence that was new, if not a little scary.

Damn.

"Maybe one game." He managed to croak. He was going to need another shot if he expected to keep a handle on this woman. She smiled wide and reached for the cue.

* * *

"Come on, come on." Bobby muttered, his fingers drumming on the wheel. No one was coming down the road but the light had been red for what seemed like years, and with a pissed-off growl he blew the intersection and sped down the rain-glazed highway. Looking at the dash clock made his stomach seize- he still had four hours to go. Bobby's cell phone lay discarded in the backseat, where he had thrown it in frustration after all nine of Dean's mobiles had gone straight to voicemail. Quickly, he ran through the details again in his head.

Nemesis was the Greek goddess of revenge, and one hell of a character. Definitely not someone you'd want to screw with if given the chance- she had the tendency to curse her enemies for all eternity. In the right situations, she wasn't exactly an evil goddess, more one of retribution for past sins. She had been giving people their less-than-poetic justice for years now, killing cheating husbands, torturing loan sharks, and most recently for no apparent reason, cutting off the heads of the leaders of a local HOA up in Madison, Wisconsin. These days, there were no sacrifices to her or her temple, which left her (and a lot of other pagan and Greco-Roman gods) just the teeniest bit ticked at every single human on the planet. Basically, she wanted her revenge. And her getting her hands on a hunter-especially Dean Winchester-was like a janitor winning the jackpot on a triple rollover week. The kid had enough spare guilt to landslide a saint, not to mention the load of people (and monsters) that held vendettas against him.

If Nemesis got anywhere near him her radar was going to go haywire with repressed emotions if it didn't break from the initial shock of his basic hero complex. Sam was away at college, which meant nobody was there with the kid to keep him from doing something stupid. John had joined Bobby and Dean in Madison but had driven off to Virginia right after they finished the job, claiming to have caught the scent of a werewolf pack that had given him the slip a few weeks earlier. Dean had only stayed behind to clean up the investigation details with the local authorities, spinning some crackpot story about how a pshyco killer had been beheading the members of the HOA she thought had skimmed off the top of the neighborhood funds. It wasn't ironclad, nor was it exactly standard as stories went, but Dean had shrugged off Bobby's warning with the simple excuse that soccer moms were vicious.

They should have known better than to leave him alone. Dean had been different since his brother left-a little less careful with a little more drinking on the side. He distracted himself with women and cases, working new jobs every week and staying nowhere for more than a few days. Somehow, it was like without Sam, Dean had lost his tether to the real world. He was alive, sure, but now he just seemed lost, wandering aimlessly in search of something to fill the hole that his little brother had left behind even though he knew he wasn't going to find it.

Bobby worried about him.

Just last week, he had yanked Dean out of the middle of a bar fight and dragged him outside to the parking lot. The freezing air had seemed to sober him up a little, but he was still wrecked. He was limping and his nose was dripping crimson- not that he seemed to care.

"Bobby, what the hell was that?"

"That was me pulling your happy ass out of the fire." Bobby had folded his arms and watched the kid try to find his own feet. Hunting tomorrow was going to be an adventure. Dean scoffed, but stumbled as he went to lean on his car. It just happened to be a few feet over from where he thought he had left it. He straightened back up and stuck his chest out. "I could have taken those guys with my hands tied behind my back."

They both knew he was lying through his teeth. The gang of bikers he had gotten mixed up with after a bad hand of poker were all so gigantic that they could have squashed Dean with a finger and then flicked his pancaked ass to the moon- he was just too proud to admit it. He had always been proud.

Idjit.

* * *

His phone was ringing.

Was it his phone? The violent buzz against his leg was more like a giant, pissed-off bumblebee that insistently nudged him from sleep. It was probably Dad calling to ask where he was. Now that came up… where _was_ he?

There had been the game of pool at the bar, hazy though it was through the veil of a couple of solid shots of the good stuff- every time he sank a ball he got a guess at her name.

"Tina?" She had shaken her head at him with a coy little grin.

_Whack._

"Nicole."

"Nope." The grin got wider and Dean slammed another ball home. It fell into the corner pocket with a clack that was barely audible over the honky tonk thundering from the speakers by the karaoke stage.

"Allie?"

I had to be something like that. All of these girls, the Tiffanys and the Victorias and the Sapphires, they just sort of blended together after the first few times. He could flirt his way from town to town and pick up some pretty bad habits on the way, because that was simply something he _could_ do. John had loosened the reins enough after Sam left that Dean could pretty much drift from spot to spot as long as he showed up when Dad needed him and checked in occasionally so everyone knew he wasn't dead. These girls were kind of like souvenirs- even though Dean felt like a tool for thinking it. After all, what did the name matter? He'd be gone by morning anyway.

"So what do you say to getting out of here?" He had ventured carefully after winning the last round. The bar was closing up, but the neon-charged interior still held a few late night stragglers, and an old guy nursed his beer at the counter while watching the two pool players pack up. Her eyes had locked on his like a rattlesnake's jaws snapping on an unsuspecting mouse, their silver glow paralyzing his ability to think straight. There was something he had to do, something important that itched in the back of his brain, but he let her take his wrist and start to lead him towards the back door anyway.

"I was starting to think you'd never ask."

That was the last thing he remembered before everything went white. Dean groaned, praying to whatever powers that be that he'd ended up back in his motel room and not some bathtub in Chechnya with a serial killer standing over him. He was sure he could take the guy, but hand-to-hand combat with a hangover? Not exactly fun.

His phone buzzed again.

The phone. Right.

He started to reach for it but was stopped cold by the ropes digging into his wrist. He opened his eyes.

_Son of a bitch._

He was spread-eagled on some sort of table with cords binding his ankles and cutting into his waist. Both arms were flung wide across the hard surface and received the same treatment-he was done up like a damn Christmas tree and it would have been hilarious if it wasn't so weird. He tugged weakly at the knots holding him down only to feel them slip tighter as he struggled. It figured that the one time he met a monster that could tie a decent knot he was too hung over to escape. That was just friggin' lovely.

"Good morning, sunshine." Dean stopped dead as a blur entered his vision, a dark haired beauty with smoky eyes and full red lips. Not-Tina smirked down at him. "I'm glad you're wake for the fun."

If he hadn't been convinced she was a monster before, the freezing steel of the dagger she drew lovingly down the side of his face quickly told him otherwise.

"You know, I'm not really into kink. It's hell on the lower lumbar."

She chuckled darkly. "Always joking, aren't we? I guess it's a part of your charm. I knew you were the one the second you walked into that bar, all cheekbones and swagger. Aletheia thirsted for your blood too, boy. Time for a taste."

"Who are you?"

"Nemesis, sweetie. A familiar concept for you, no?"

Dean was too busy racking his brain to put a face to the name to answer the question. He didn't know exactly who Nemesis was, but he got the general gist and it wasn't good. He struggled as she leaned in closer to him and placed her nose inches from his with the dagger at his throat.

"We're going to have a good time, you and I. Just you wait." The knife threw sparks as she ran it across her fingernails.

"It was you the whole time. There was no coven in Madison."

Nemesis patted his cheek with a sneer. "Give the boy a prize. I'm smart enough to know when there are hunters afoot. I cover my tracks accordingly. Oh, but I am glad you stayed one last night, Dean. You'll make a divine sacrifice."

The bitch giggled at her terrible pun just as he forced a laugh. "Lady, you are barking up the wrong tree."

In one swift move she sliced his shirt open, the cold blade passing close enough to stir a breeze against his chest. "On the contrary darling, you seem to be the perfect candidate for our little party. For example?"

Slowly, almost luxuriously, she drew the blade down his chest and a long line of blood welled up and spilled over in ruby rivulets down his ribcage. Dean arched his back and screamed just before he was thrown into the past with a violent snap and the world went blue.

Looking at yourself was a freaky thing. Dean searched his own eyes for any hint that the guy in front of him knew who he was, but there wasn't even a glimmer of recognition in the hard gaze. It was almost like looking in a mirror, but there were subtle differences that only someone who knew what was going on inside could tell: there was a shift in the set of his jaw, and the way that he carried himself spoke more of the need to prove himself than the loss of hope that he knew lay heavy on his shoulders now.

Well, now-ish.

The stitches running up the side of his (not his?) face meant that this was 1997. He was sixteen from the looks of it, and the heavy sleeves of John's oversized jacket rolled at the wrists told him that this was what, February? He'd given his coat to Sam that year when the kid had started growing like a weed. But the reflection in front of him didn't look all that capable of giving hand-me-downs to his kid brother. He did, however, look very capable of pulling the trigger of the gun trained on Dean's head.

"Please." His lips formed the words of their own accord, and Dean's stomach dropped as he realized precisely what this moment was- and what it meant that he was here in this memory instead of somewhere, anywhere else. His own hard gaze was blood-chilling.

"Shoot it, Dean."

Dean's heart seized at the next face that appeared. John Winchester looked even less concerned than his son did at the fate of the creature in front of him. Dean's doppelganger tightened his jaw before adjusting his grip, raised the gun-

And took his shot.

With a ragged gasp, Dean resurfaced. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't even tell which way was up. Blood was dripping down the sides of his torso, and twelve perfectly round holes perforated his chest. Silver buckshot, he remembered-they had run out of silver bullets when they shot the rest of the pack. Dean and John had stormed the nest of werewolves in Tulsa during Dean's first hunt. Shooting the last wolf had been the first time Dean had ever killed anything on his own: the one time that his now-shattered morals had come to bite him in the ass. The first kill was the hardest. And it hurt like hell.

Dimly, he heard Nemesis laugh as he tried desperately to get air past the lump in his throat. The dagger traced a slim, cold path down his forearm.

"What…the hell…is that thing?" He finally managed to spit, his chest blazing with the pressure of talking and trying to breathe. The dagger at the edge of his vision glinted in a way that was almost mocking. The pain was a haze that was difficult to see through.

"Aletheia." The goddess answered simply. "It shows you the truth of your actions, and gives the vengeance that must be exacted upon you. All it needs is a little taste of your blood."

As if demonstrating, she caught a drop of the red river down his side on the edge of the blade and the dagger flared with heat against his skin. A quick flick of the dagger slashed a wide slit across his hips just above the waistband of his jeans, and fire burned across his body. The last thing he saw was Nemesis' grin.

* * *

The bartender was obviously lying when he said he had no idea which way the couple had gone. It was in the way his eyes shifted down to the doorknob he was locking, the way he tried to shove Bobby back out of the bar when he went to move in. And it really pissed Bobby off.

"Listen, man-I wish I could help you." His keys jingled as he spun them around a finger with a nonchalant shrug. The guy couldn't have been more than thirty, and not in bad shape-which meant he was pretty flexible when Bobby yanked his arm behind him and shoved him to the wall, but a twist in the right direction had him screeching like a schoolgirl.

"Dude, I swear! AH!" The bartenders wrist cracked loudly as Bobby bent it further.

"You're a pretty bad liar, you know that?" He barked. "You saw them leave. Together, I'm betting, and five bucks says the lady gave you some compensation to distract anybody that came asking after her little friend."

"Christ! I don't know which way they went, she drove off in the guy's ride after she knocked him out. She paid me when I saw her lift his keys and then she stuffed him in the back- it looked like they drove off down towards the old McKenna farm, I don't know!" The guy wailed, squirming uncomfortably.

"If _anything _happened to that boy, I am coming back for you. And it ain't gonna be fun. Tell me which way the farm is."

* * *

It was like being dragged up from underwater again and again. Just when Dean thought the pain would stop, when he'd be able to slip into oblivion and feel nothing else, he was pulled back from the edge with a stiff spark of magic.

"No, sweetie- you can't just skip out on me like that. That's cheating." Nemesis kept him awake for the whole thing. She stopped occasionally to taunt him, providing enough of a break that he could breathe again before the dagger cut another quick path through his skin- or what was left of it.

The bullets, he had gotten used to after a few rounds. Then came the first stake. It pounded through his back, racking his body with force and making him cough a warm spatter of blood across his cheek. Nemesis had only partially healed the gaping hole in his chest, so ugly pink scar tissue ran riddled with thick raw veins of crimson. Again and again she slit his skin, and again and again he was thrown to face himself down in the past- fire consuming his bones, kerosene blistering his skin, blood dripping down to make a slippery sheet underneath of him. Salt crusted the blisters that tracked and bubbled across every piece of his body, burning and weeping whenever he moved. Blood soaked his jeans in dark patches, drying and cracking whenever his body was wracked with another spasm of torture. Dean had given up on screaming- the pain was too intense. She took a break now, cleaning the red from her glowing blade as Dean trembled with the pain of a thousand deaths. The cold air sliced over his burning skin as he stared down her back with heavy-lidded eyes that flickered with hatred. She turned and chuckled at his broken body with a sneer.

"So the great hunter can't take what he gives to all the big, bad monsters? What a pity."

Dean laughed, but the sound was crackled and stretched the way an old phonograph record would pop if it was run too many times. A hacking cough brought more blood up to ooze down his jaw. "That the best you got?"

His voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper from all the screaming, but Nemesis still raised an eyebrow at his brazen attitude.

"Awfully snarky for someone who's about to die. This isn't about me, Dean-o." Nemesis lifted the knife once more, but a sharp click shattered the tight silence. Bobby Singer's pistol pressed an icy circle into Nemesis' temple as she held the dagger low, the steel glinting wicked in the high light of the moon streaming through the holes in the ceiling of the abandoned barn.

"Let him go, you bitch."

The goddess struck with the speed of a cobra, smacking the gun out of his hand with such force that it hits the wall on the other side of the barn and slammed to the floor. Bobby ended up the same way. With a grunt, he hauled himself to his feet and launched himself at Nemesis. He would say this-for such a skinny-minny, the girl fought like a damn Rottweiler. She came at Bobby fast and hard with the dagger clenched in her fist as he tackled her. Had she not been a demonic bitch torturing his surrogate son, Bobby would have paid money to see her in a bar fight. One punch to the jaw had him seeing sparks as they rolled around, each trying to gain ground on the other. She screamed with rage and clawed at the side of his face when he pinned the wrist of her knife hand and pried the steel from her fingers. He was just about to stab her when she flipped over and clocked him in the head with the stock of his pistol. The dagger skittered across the floor and Bobby went flat on his back. Nemesis stood, and smiled as she stared the older hunter down with black blood staining her glittering teeth.

"I thought I got lucky with Dean here, but_ two_ hunters? It must be Christmas." It looked like she was about to say more, but her mouth formed a surprised O and the only sound that came out of her after that was a soft gasp as Alethiea plunged into her back. Her eyes went wide and glassy as her attacker kept her upright with shaking hands.

"Happy friggin' New Year." Dean Winchester growled into her ear as he yanked the knife from her insides. Then they both collapsed to the floor.

* * *

Sam didn't have a beard.

Dean squinted at the fuzzy figure in front of him, trying to focus past the glare of the sun slanting in through the blinds and managing only to make his pounding head feel about a thousand times worse. He blinked a few times before realizing that his gritty eyelids were about all that didn't hurt like hell- and even those were iffy at best. Blearily, he squinted down at the bandages crisscrossing his arms before slumping back against the pillows behind him. Hospital, as far as he could tell. Hospital pillows were always too squishy to be comfortable, and usually just being stuck like this would be enough to sufficiently piss him off, but he was just too tired to be annoyed at sheets right now.

"You awake?"

The haze of drugs cleared just enough for Dean to see Bobby scoot closer to his side from his post by the window.

"Yeah." Jesus, he sounded like he'd been gargling glass. His voice came out as a harsh screech that made even Bobby wince a little, and after swallowing a mouthful of saliva that tasted like acid he tried again.

"Nemesis. Is she-?"

Bobby shook his head at Dean's worry. "Dead." He finished, trying not to let his throat get tight at the fact that this kid looked like he'd been to hell and back. The blisters over him had only half-healed into pale swollen bubbles, and his mangled arm was strapped tight to his chest. Bright red rope burns crisscrossed his body where he had wormed loose of the restraints holding his arms and legs to the table just to save Bobby's ass. He hadn't wanted to drug the kid- Dean would've hated not being able to function- but the paramedics had to put him out just to touch him. Back in the barn, he had been passed out cold until one of the EMTs tried to take his pulse. The second her gloved hand touched his neck Dean had shot upright. Or tried to. The whimper that came out of him as he desperately tried to get away from her damn near broke Bobby's heart. Without thinking, he had grabbed the closest thing to him-Dean's hand- and held on for dear life. Dean yelped and jerked his fingers away from Bobby's grip, fighting until the morphine had made him go limp.

The torture was going to take a while to recover from, and that was just the sheer amount of screwed-up that Nemesis had inflicted on the poor guy's _outsides._ Bobby had done his best to fend off the doctors' questions about Dean's multiple injuries, and he had the feeling that they would have to bust him out of here to get him home at all before they started experimenting on the poor kid. The entire staff was fascinated with the man who had apparently been shot several hundred times, staked through the heart, had blackened carbon deposits on his skeleton, and whose lower body was burned almost beyond recognition, but would hold no scars. Every time another bandage came off, the skin was knitting together as if magic was involved. But it didn't matter how fast he healed on the surface, Bobby knew. Who knew how long it would take Dean to put himself back together again after this. It was anyone's guess as to exactly what Nemesis had said or done to the hunter in the hours it had taken for Bobby to get to him, but it had obviously left its mark.

It wasn't just in the way he was bandaged and bloodied down to the edges- there was a difference in the way he held himself now. The shadows under his eyes extended farther down his face than they were supposed to and his shoulders had an unsettled heaviness over them that Bobby hadn't seen before. There was something fundamentally different in this, something that was distinctly Not Dean.

It was killing him. And Bobby didn't know what the hell to do about it.

* * *

Dean rolled over to face the wall, the tubes and wires poking out of him trailing in a twisted maze up to the machines keeping him alive. He wanted to rip them out and run. He knew the drugs weren't going to help him stave off the nightmares for much longer- last night he'd nearly given the nurse a heart attack when she'd come in to take his vitals and he'd fought back against her hand. The barest touch of anything on his skin made his stomach drop and his heart rate spike, and every time they put in an I.V it was a battle with his instincts not to jump headfirst out the window and run for the freaking hills. When they changed the bandages the smell of his own blood made him sick. Every time John called to check up on him Nemesis' words echoed in his mind.

This was a nightmare. And Dean didn't think he was going to wake up.

* * *

Bobby jerked awake at the noise, not sure whether to fight or run before he realized what the sound was. The dark hospital room still held a symphony of beeps from the machines that held Dean tethered to the bed, but the soft glow of the lights on the monitors was just clear enough for Bobby to see Dean's shoulders shaking under the thin hospital blanket.

"Sam." He moaned in to the pillow. "Sam!"

Bobby pulled himself upright off the impossibly uncomfortable hospital chair and went over to the bed without knowing if the kid was still asleep. Didn't seem to matter-things were a deep steaming pile of it whether he was conscious or not, and Bobby couldn't fix things either way. In some ways that was the worst part of this whole mess: the fights with John, the late-night bail, the broken engines. Losing his brother. Bobby had figured out what to do to help the kid keep going through it all and now he could barely help him eat his breakfast. Dean had shut down. Gone was the twisted humor, the cheeky grin at the nurse who came in to re-wrap his hand in the morning. He trusted no one- and Bobby didn't blame him.

Dean groaned and tossed, his forehead shiny with the sweat of another nightmare, and Bobby moved closer to try and pull him out of it.

"Dean?"

He shuddered at the sound of his own name, but kept shivering, his body tight with shock. Bobby tried again.

"Hey."

The Winchester's jaw clenched as his fingers dug into the sheets on either side of him, and the pulse rate on the machines increased to a speeding drone.

"Look at me, damn it." Without thinking, Bobby grabbed Dean's shoulder and shifted it so that the kid would face him. Before he could shake him awake, Dean flinched sharply at the touch and sat bolt upright with a gasp and wild eyes, his chest heaving and muscles tense despite the massive dose of sedatives he had on board. Once he saw it was Bobby, his shoulders slumped and he leaned heavily in to the older hunter. Bobby understood, wrapping his arms around the skinny shoulders without hesitation and pulling the broken hunter to him.

"Hey, now. You're okay. I've got you." Bobby could have counted on one hand the number of times that Dean had let anything like this happen between them- hugs were not something that he had liked even as a kid. He'd avoided them for the most part, except from Sam. He would pretend to be all uncomfortable as his younger sibling tried to squeeze the life out of him, and Sam would laugh whenever his brother tried to squirm away because both of them knew that he wasn't trying all that hard anyway. Sam had always been the exception to the rule, which was one of the reasons that Bobby desperately wanted not to be pissed at him for not being there when his brother needed him.

There was a muffled sniff. "S'm,"came the quiet plea. "He was so cold... I couldn't-he just-he wasn't moving." Dean stopped with a shiver.

Bobby's entire thought stream stopped dead when he felt the wetness start to soak through his shirtfront, and it was then that he was surer than ever. Dean needed his brother. Sam would have known exactly what to do here, but Bobby was at a loss as Dean sank in to him, exhausted. It was probably the drugs. Hopefully he wouldn't remember this in the morning- if he did they'd both be embarrassed, and Dean would pull the big burly man act to cover up just how badly broken he was. For now, though, Bobby just kept the kid close.

"I've got you."

* * *

"Hey, sweetheart- could I get Jell-O with these eggs?"

The bottle-blond morning nurse turned around with a puzzled expression. _Ellie__, _her name tag read. Bobby and Ellie both stared at Dean, then at each other. He still looked haunted, and the ghost of a cocky smile playing over his lips looked faked, but there was a spark of something in his eyes that hadn't been there yesterday. Ellie seemed pretty shocked. Bobby didn't blame her-he hadn't spoken in days, not since that night a few weeks ago.

"Um, sure thing, honey!" She bubbled cheerfully, covering up her surprise and bustling out of the room-no doubt to go running to the nurse's station and blab to the doctors that the patient was finally responding after three weeks. Dean sat up, already working the medical tape off of his I.V lines as Bobby watched with one eyebrow raised.

"Give me a hand, would you?" He grumbled at Bobby, wincing as one needle pulled out. Bobby pretended not to see the sharp tremor his skin gave as they worked him over quickly and got him standing with a little effort.

"Where's my car?" Dean asked as he pulled the window open and swung a leg out, trying not to jostle his leg bandages and largely failing to avoid the pull of gravity. Thank God the hospital had a gravel roof or they would have been screwed.

"The parking garage, where it goes. You sure you're up for this?" Bobby couldn't help but ask as Dean teetered precariously on the edge of the sill and sucked in a breath as gravel bit in to his scabbed-over legs.

"I got it. Just gotta keep moving." He grunted.

It wasn't until they finally got to the car (the pace had been painful, but Dean guessed Ellie wouldn't fall for the flirting again) that Dean turned to Bobby with his eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth. Then shut it again.

"Hey, Bobby?"

"Mm?" Bobby was too busy looking for the damn keys. When there was nothing but silence he looked up at Dean, who was staring down at him with an expression that bordered on sheepish.

"About that night-" he paused, not sure if he should continue. Bobby waited, still digging for the keys. The throaty growl of the Impala's engine changed the silence from something uncomfortable to something known, and Dean chewed at the inside of his lip as he debated with himself whether or not to say what he knew.

Bobby watched Dean out of the corner of his eye and wondered exactly how much he remembered. If he remembered the phone call to a certain Stanford dorm and the concerned voice of a boy that had tried valiantly not to giggle at the sound of his older brother hopped up on meds. Sam was okay. That was all Dean needed to know. Bobby didn't know exactly what the two had talked about, but Sam on the speaker phone had said something about doing the right thing. Bobby hadn't been sure when he first dialed the number, but after seeing Dean relax into sleep for the first time since before his brother left for college, Bobby knew he had done good by his boys.

Dean still waited, his unspoken _Thanks _debated over its essence of chick-flickness versus his genuine gratitude. With a sigh, he settled back into the seat of his Baby as Bobby flew down the highway. He would say it later. Thanks to Bobby, he had that chance. Bobby shook his head at the internal monologue he could see in Dean's eyes, as well as the word there. He could have said it.

He didn't have to.


	8. The Most Broken Thing of All

**Hello, all! A list of three things for a well-read fic:**

**1) Actually HAD coffee when writing this at two in the morning. In conclusion, it is either brilliant or utter rubbish. Careful where you tread.**

**2) To any and all citizens of Poyen, Arkansas: Sincerest apologies for any offense you may here take- I've never been to your town, nor do I share Dean's opinions on it's "padded white ass". I'm sure you are lovely people- the only reason I picked your town is because honestly, it's just really fun to say.**

**3) Apologies for all my continuous and faithful readers for having angsty pieces for two weeks in a row-I promise some nice innocent Wee-chester fluff for next time.****Thanks for the patience with my spotty timing- maybe if I publicly announce here a desire to churn out a chapter each week it'll motivate me...or I'll be mobbed. Which still counts as motivation in my eyes, so it works! Anyway, without much further ado about nothing, I present this chapter set in Season 3. Enjoy! -R.**

It was way too quiet for Sam to sleep.

Sure, it wasn't like they always bunked down in the middle of the city, but there was always a constant noise that came with motels, this incessant buzz that reminded you that you weren't alone in the universe. It used to bug him when he was younger, but somewhere along the way the hum of fluorescent bulbs and the murmur of strangers' voices became something that he waited to hear mingling with the sound of Dean's light snoring.

Now it was just weird.

Sam punched the pillow, and flipped over so that his back was to the wall- the neon light from the motel sign was leaking through the thin, nicotine-stained curtains and silhouetting Dean's prone figure on the couch across the room. Sam wondered if he was cold, all patched up in bandages like that- but then again he couldn't remember the last time at least one of the Winchesters hadn't been held together by duct tape and sheer force of will. Any other night, Sam would have walked around the corner to clear his head in the crisp night air and duck into some no name diner to drink a soda at three in the morning. He could take the car now. Dean wouldn't mind. He debated sitting up and getting outside, before something in his mind slammed down in resolution. He wasn't going to leave his brother.

Not like this.

"Hey, Dean?"

Silence from the couch. Not that Sam was surprised.

"I know this is stupid- but do you remember that one time in Poyen when we busted into that mattress store and jumped on the beds? And I fell off and cracked my forehead open on that frame display? God, Dad was pissed. He was yelling at me over the phone the whole time they were putting in the stitches, and once I saw that needle I was freaked out enough. You made me sing AC/DC so I would stop hyperventilating. We were so busted, man. But once he got to the ER you stood up and told him it was all your fault because the beds in the Day-Z Motel had about as much bounce as a sheet of wet cardboard and that the fine citizens of Poyen, Arkansas 'wouldn't know fun if it bit them in the padded white ass.' He almost killed you right there in the ambulance bay."

Sam couldn't help but snort, even though this was far from funny. "You had gun cleaning duty for three months. I kept trying to pay you back for that, you know. You wouldn't let me."

Sam felt himself slipping down now, his own voice filling the silence for a second and letting him relax down into the scratchy sheets.

"You keep saving me, Dean. Even when my ass is hell-deep in the fire, you pull me out. I just wish one of these days you'd let me save you back."

The only response was the chirping of crickets in the May darkness outside. "You're a stubborn bastard, you know that?"

Sam wasn't sure if the resulting rumble was his brother's chuckle or a far-off motor from the highway. He was honestly too tired to mind. He didn't blame his brother for being pissed at him for this whole mess- it had been his fault entirely in the first place, and Sam would admit it in a second. But Dean hadn't given up on him once. The clock on the nightstand beeped twice, and the numbers switched to 4 AM. May 3rd. His birthday had been yesterday, Sam realized. And the one thing he wanted was the one thing he couldn't have.

Man, what a shitty birthday. Dean would pay for this one big-time. "I know you think this is just me being a pest, but I'm twenty-five now. You can't tell me what to do anymore. I'm going to get you out of this, Dean. I promise."

The silence had probably gone from pissed to disbelieving, but Sam was already asleep.

Bobby and Sam buried Dean at the edge of town the next morning. It was no use carrying a body across state lines- and there wasn't anywhere the two had stayed long enough to call home to take him to- so they laid him down in a spot just outside the city limits. Neither talked as they worked, and the only sound that broke the quiet was the rhythm of metal on dirt. The service was nothing monumental- a simple grave, a pine box and a bottle of Jack Daniels poured out over a ragged wooden cross. For all the time that they'd had to plan this out, all of them had hoped they wouldn't have to. It was pathetic, Bobby decided. This man, this incredible stubborn jackass hero of a man deserved more-s_o much more_\- than he had gotten in the end. When it was over Sam just stood there on the side of the road, eyes distant.

"Sam?" Bobby put his hand on the kid's shoulder. Nothing. "Sam."

He straightened up and tightened his jaw. "I'm fine."

"Are you-?"

"I said: I'm. Fine."

Bobby backed off. He was tense, the kind of tense that didn't come from sadness or grief. He was pissed. The ride back to the motel was silent. Once they were there, Sam gathered up bags and stashed them in the trunk next to the arsenal- everything except for Dean's duffel. That he laid carefully in the backseat. His movements were mechanical, jerky, as if he had convinced himself that everything would be fine if he didn't slow down. A faint _clink _on the asphalt shattered the clockwork stillness and both of them turned to look at the small object winking cheery morning sunshine at them from the blacktop.

Dean's amulet.

Sam picked it up gingerly by its worn leather strap before turning to face the building quickly, his shielded eyes flickering to the upstairs window of the motel. Something dangerous glimmered in his gaze before he handed Bobby the keys.

"I forgot something." He said quietly. "Warm up the car."

And with that he whirled around and went back inside, necklace still clutched tight in his hand. Bobby waited a few seconds before following him-the old hunter didn't know what he was capable of when he was this angry, but he knew it wouldn't be good. Sam ran through the hall like he was fleeing from something- or to it, Bobby realized. Once he got all the way back to the room they had just cleaned out, Sam rushed inside and almost closed the door behind him, giving up when the humidity swollen door wouldn't fit the frame. It hung open just a crack, a chink in the armor.

For a minute there was silence. Bobby waited.

Then there was a tremendously loud crash, and the sound of shattering glass echoed down the hallway. Something else broke, and a splintering sound came as the wall in the hallway cracked from the inside. Another glass exploded against the far wall, before Bobby saw the bedframe crash to the floor and a window get smashed to pieces. Wood chunks hit the inside of the door with dull thuds-_plunk, plunk, plunk_-one right after another, flung at the walls as the world crashed down around their ears. He was screaming now, an animal scream that pierced the air, this guttural howl of anger and sadness and loss that managed to break Bobby's heart and try to heal it at the same time. He wanted to do the same thing: to break something, to shatter everything, to scream for all he was worth until there was nothing left to feel and drink until he forgot his own name and the name of every single person he hadn't been able to save. But it didn't work like that.

Another glass, tinkling like bells as it hit the wall and fell to the floor in a million pieces. There was a loud half-sob before Sam fell too, in much the same condition. Bobby eased the door open a little wider. There he was.

The once-passable motel room had been reduced to shambles. The twin bed lay on its side, mattress flipped up against the wall and the frame bashed all to hell. The vase full of flowers that had drooped on the table of the kitchenette was a lost cause. The floor was littered with bits of glass that dripped water and flower petals that hung from their bare stems with a desperate persistence. There was a hole in the drywall, and the jagged edges of the broken window threw twisted shadows all over the room before laying light on the most broken thing of all.

Sam was in the center of the mess on his knees holding on to that amulet like it was the last thing he had left to live for. His knuckles were bleeding, but he didn't seem to care. His head was in his hands and he was actually _crying_, landing in the glass on his hands and knees, chanting over and over like a mantra between ragged gasps for air. Two words.

_I'm sorry._

Bobby wanted so badly to go to him, to tell him it would be okay. But he knew it wouldn't.

He was sorry too.


	9. Touch Base

**A/N: Breaking news for those of you assuming I've fallen face-first off the planet: I have returned from senior week and a severe case of writers block in full force, and yes, now that things have calmed down I intend to do weekly updates. ****Recent events in a certain Bobby-related episode had my poor fan girl heart dying slowly (Curse you, Season 10. How is it possible to love something so much and hate it passionately at the same time? Stupid producers who know what they're doing...) and inspired this fic, again set pre-season. I had to write some Weechester shenanigans and drink gallons of caffeine to quench the mixed feels, and all in all I think it turned out all right. Welcome back, Rowan-took me long enough, right? :) **

**Anyhoo, comments and critiques are always welcome. Feel free to leave a request if you're feeling brave or slightly insane , and I'll see what I can do. Now I must go eat pie, and yes, from experience, I can say that the apple pie most _definitely_ is freakin' worth it. Much coffee and writer's love to you, m'dears. Read on. -R.**

It had only been twenty minutes, and Bobby had already reminded himself six times that the brake was on the other side of the car.

"Okay, gas now. Slowly."

Slowly had apparently changed definitions in the thirty some-odd years since Bobby had learned to drive- Sam hit the gas and the car shot forward, the windows rattling before the kid lost his nerve and slammed on the brake. Bobby nearly knocked himself senseless on the dash, and when he picked himself up off the floorboards his cap was wildly askew. Out in the hot South Dakota summer, Dean lounged on the hood of a gutted Ford, laughing so hard he almost fell off the truck. Sam scowled and slouched back in the seat after shifting the giant pink Buick-the Pepto BisBeast, as Dean had christened it after a few beers-into park. It was tough for the kid to work the pedals with his gawky legs smashed nearly to his chin but the bench seat was pushed as far back as it could go. Bobby hauled himself out of the passenger side before he could realize just exactly how too old he was for this job.

"Is it possible you got worse since your first lesson, Sammy?" Dean chortled, sauntering over to the driver's side to lean down on the windowsill while his brother's face went beet red.

"Shut up." The sixteen-year-old muttered, sinking down even further into the holey seat of the Beast.

From what Bobby knew, Sam's first attempts at driving the Impala had resulted in about four hundred dollars' worth of damage to a fence line in Southern Wyoming along with the accidental tipping of two cows and a run-in with the front window of a Biggersons. Needless to say, John had stopped at Bobby's to fix the cow-shaped glass-filled dent in his front bumper (in later years, before the semi accident that smashed it into a mass of chrome pudding, Dean would swear his Baby was indestructible for this exact reason. Cows did not provide a soft landing, and running through four hundred dollars' worth of fence at five dollars a foot would have reduced a Prius to Jell-O in four seconds flat) leaving the boys to Bobby for a while. John had headed south to cool off on the heels of a hunt for Jacksonville werewolf twins. Dean had stayed- Bobby thought it was more to let John diffuse than for the entertainment factor of watching his brother kill oil barrels. It didn't take a genius to see that the rift between Sam and John had grown since Bobby had last seen them, and it wasn't because of a driving lesson gone wrong. The static between the boys was getting more uncomfortable the more Bobby skirted around it, which meant there was only one thing to do.

"All right, driving lesson's over. We can try again in a few hours."

"And what are we supposed to do for a few hours out here in BF Egypt?" Sam asked sharply, the heat adding to his already-sour temper.

Bobby shook his head. "BF Egypt needs a temporary baseball team-and a pair of idjits with a hot-pink car is gonna have to do for now."

Dean snorted. "Baseball?"

Bobby shrugged. "You used to love it."

"I was ten, Bobby. Sam was six- I barely remember that."

Bobby remembered it like yesterday.

Sam had decided to teach all of them how to play on his crooked set up of four bases (being the resident expert on the sport after two weeks of peewee T-ball in Minnesota), recruiting Rumsfeld to sit in as third baseman when he ran out of people to fill spots in the field. Bobby doubled as pitcher and second base while Dean stood on first looking bored. Sam decided to show them how it was done as the first man up to bat, planting his feet exactly shoulder wide and spacing his hands carefully. He stopped the pitch four times on account of Bobby's not "throwing it right" before he finally stepped back ready to swing. His spindly little legs had done nothing to help him, but he got points for enthusiasm when his first swing (and miss) knocked him flat on his bony ass.

Bobby didn't expect much from Dean's swing-it was clear from the way he held the bat that he'd never played in his life. Sam made it to first after what was essentially a pity throw, and his whoops as he ran to first were enough to persuade Bobby not to tag him out after Sam's carefully calculated strategy convinced him he was the next Babe Ruth.

Dean, however, was much less methodical about the whole thing.

He knew how to hold a gun. A bat was not a gun, but Dean understood the general gist of the exercise: the damaging end was what you swung at whatever came speeding at you. Even with the iffy knowledge he had gotten off of Bobby's old World Series tapes, his hands were too far apart and his stance was spotty at best. Bobby's wound up, and Dean provided commentary as well as prime batter butt-wiggling, making Sam giggle.

"And here's the wind-up from Old Man Singer-the bases are only a quarter loaded, with Rumsfeld the drooling mutt asleep on third and Samantha Winchester digging for gold on first. Man it must really be in there. The rookie needs a deep-sea drill."

The giggles ceased, replaced with a scowl from the rookie.

"And here's the pitch, hard and low down the center line…" Bobby watched the ball and prepared to cover his face when his throw came back at him. Not even Dean expected the crack that echoed around the yard when the bat connected and sent the baseball flying through the air with a whistle, arcing over a pile of junkers on the far side of the yard before disappearing. They all stared as Rumsfeld took off after it. Dean just stood on home plate in shock.

"Run, Dean, run!" Sam yelled. Running, he could do. Dean took off like a shot around the oil-drum bases, hollering commentary as he went.

"And Lean Mean Dean Winchester goes for first, passing No-Swing Sammy Winchester, racing the clock against the incredible Fetch-"

"Go, Dean!" Sam cheered from his place on first.

"He passes second; he passes third-holy smokes! HOME RUN! I repeat-the Winchesters win the game! The crowd goes wild!"

Bobby expected him to stop, but Dean kept running- still showing off for the fake crowd, he leveled his body at his brother and threw the kid over his shoulder. Bobby couldn't do much but stand there and laugh as Dean bolted past swinging his brother in crooked circles, the pair of them whooping and hollering like morons. Sam squealed, yelping as Dean flipped him upside down and his shirt-already two sizes too big- flopped over his face.

"Dean, put me down! Dean!" He pleaded, laughing so hard Bobby could barely understand him. Dean pulled Sam back over his shoulder and tackled him to the ground where he proceeded to mercilessly tickle his little brother into submission.

"Are you refusing to celebrate? Huh? You're playing for the other team, aren't you, Sammy-boy? Traitor!"

Sam writhed in the dirt, trying desperately to get away from the hands probing at his sides, but he forgot that Dean was a big brother. Big brothers had a way of finding all the spots that made you laugh so hard you cried and had you gasping for air by the time you were finished. Unfortunately for Dean, so did fake uncles. One pinch had the kid flat on the ground and Sam took his chance, leaping through the air to land on top of Dean. He damn near pancaked the poor guy. They rolled around for a couple of minutes in the dust before Dean surrendered with both hands up in the air.

"Okay, okay! I give!" Breathless, Dean flopped over just in time for Rumsfeld to come bounding back and drop the slime-covered baseball inches from his nose. "A little help here, Fetch?"

Rumsfeld drooled.

Back in the now, Bobby looked at the mutt- who was still on third, rolling in the grass while Dean tossed a baseball into the air. Sam leaned on the BisBeast, looking pissed.

"All right, that's enough of this crap." Both boys looked up at Bobby with something like shock.

"Come again?" Dean asked, baseball gripped like it would protect him from Bobby's wrath. Because that's what the old hunter was- he was pissed. At the fact the these idjits would just give up on each other after everything they'd been through, all for the fact that Dean wouldn't let go and Sam wouldn't hold on. At John Winchester for ruining his sons. And most of all at himself, for letting these boys wiggle their skinny half-orphaned asses into his bitter, whiskey-soaked heart.

"What the hell is wrong with you two? Now I know I ain't Doctor Phil, and the pair of you sure aren't as stone-faced as you seem to think you are, so what am I doing preaching? Either get it out in the open or the last thing you'll see is that ugly pink bumper running your sorry asses into the dirt. And I'll be the one driving. Punch each other, yell, do something besides sit here looking surly! You got something to say? Fine- say it! Stop being so damn manly and for God's sake just say what you want to instead of pretending like everything's okay!"

Sam's eyebrows went so high they disappeared beneath his shaggy hair, and Dean just stood there with his jaw hanging slightly open.

"Bobby, we're fine." Sam looked concerned for the hunter staring daggers at him. "Are you okay?"

If Bobby could have kicked himself, he would have. He should have known Sam and his bleeding heart puppy eyes would flip this on its head and bring the issue back to him. He tossed Dean the glove and stalked for the back door, locking it behind him. Dean jiggled the knob and raised an eyebrow.

"Bobby, you do remember you're the one who taught me how to pick a lock, right?"

Through the porch door window, Bobby held up a small set of lock picks tied together so they wouldn't jingle and wiggled them innocently under Dean's nose. "You mean with these?"

It was a shame Dean hadn't gotten the choice to be a hunter or not- with the string of curses he let out, he could have easily passed for a sailor.

"I didn't teach you all my tricks, Einstein. And you're stuck out there until we make some progress on the pair of you pulling your heads out of your asses, so I'd make up quick or get comfortable. It's gonna be a hot one."

"I don't need picks to kick down the door, Bobby." Dean growled.

"You bust my door and you'll get a backside full of buckshot."

Sam piped up, looking vaguely shocked. "You wouldn't do that."

Bobby hefted a shotgun off the wall and made sure both boys saw him do it. "I got a lifetime of unfortunate reflexes, kiddo. Are you sure you wanna test that theory? It won't kill you, but it'll hurt like a mother-you'll still be stuck out there, you just won't be able to sit down. Let me know when you're done."

And with that, Bobby Singer went to make himself a sandwich.

* * *

Silence was never good. Not when it was between Winchesters.

Maybe it needed explaining.

When Sam was five and Bobby had less gray in his beard, he'd volunteered to watch the boys for a week or so while John worked a case in Toledo. For the first few days they'd been in the house it had been almost creepy to Bobby how much clamor they generated: running feet, yelps, giggles, shrieks. The occasional jujitsu match when Sam flushed the toilet on purpose to make Dean's showers run cold. In his usually empty house, the most noise that ever happened was target practice and Johnny Cash- but with two boys under ten bolting through the halls, tracking mud and blood and water and crumbs everywhere, emptying the fridge before running off to destroy something else, the rooms felt so much less empty than before. Whether it was Dean snoring in front of an old baseball tape or Sam and his uncoordinated arms going crashing into yet another priceless artifact (by the time the kid was eight, Bobby had stowed or bolted down anything breakable below eye-level) it was always dirty and noisy as hell.

Until it wasn't.

The first time silence fell over the house, Bobby had been clueless. Never having had kids of his own, he thought everything was fine until he heard the scream. Bolting upstairs, he'd discovered just how wrong that was. As it turned out, this particular instance of quiet had consisted of Dean's covert removal of every set of curtains upstairs before the tying of said curtains into knots around his brother's waist so that Sam could rappel down the side of the house like James Bond. In the careful construction of this plan, Dean had forgotten two things: Sam's inability to stay still in mid-air and the age of the curtains in question. Those craggy curtains had been old when Bobby was a kid, and all the convincing those knots needed to loosen was one tiny wriggle from poor, naïve, hyperactive Sam-who happened to be dangling thirty feet from the ground.

Needless to say, the operation hadn't gone as planned.

After driving to the hospital to get Sam's fractured tibia checked out, Bobby had been on the lookout for silence. Silence meant bad ideas. Silence meant Dean was rigging the showerhead with a dye bomb. Silence meant Sam was sneaking through the kitchen to get another glass of ice water to dump on his sleeping brother's face. Silence meant that whatever was happening was going to end very, very badly-and Bobby heard it now.

It was probably just paranoia that made him get up and check the yard to make sure that the knuckleheads hadn't decided to scale the house and come down the damn chimney like two very young, very stupid Santa Clauses. What he saw when he actually looked out the window surprised him more than the Christmas visit would have.

They were talking, Dean sitting cross-legged on the hood and Sam lying back over the hardtop with his eyes closed soaking in the harsh sunlight beating down on them. It was Bobby's turn to be silent as he watched the two of them out in the heat together, finally just talking instead of staring stoically at their shoes. Sam's own clodhoppers hung off the edge of the hood, and Dean whacked them good-naturedly with the baseball glove before Sam lazily opened one eye and scowled at him. Things had changed between those two, that much was obvious to Bobby. It would never be easy for them, but he knew they had to stick together-and as long as they were under his roof they would, damn it. It didn't matter to him whatever spat had them trying to kill each other at the moment, he needed his boys together- at least mostly civil-and if locking them outside in hellish weather with nothing but a hot pink Buick and their angst was what it took, then that was fine by Bobby Singer. He flipped the lock on the door before heading back to the library- they'd figure it was open eventually.

More silence followed. Bobby was starting to think it wasn't such a bad thing for things to be quiet after all. For a minute, he dared to hope (one tiny, desperate hope) that maybe these boys had grown past their need to destroy his house and that he could have a beer and get some research done, all without worrying about having to run around the corner to find Dean attempting to set off fireworks and ending up setting fire to the carpet or Sam trying to sneak in a stray cat under his jacket, which Rumsfeld would then try to turn into Meow Mix. It was kinda peaceful, actually.

At least, it was before the baseball came crashing through the front window.

"DEAN!"

The boys had already bolted halfway down the driveway, Dean waving Bobby's spare car keys in the air triumphantly as the pair of them climbed into the old truck laughing, Sam in the driver's seat.

"Go!" He heard Dean yell at his brother. "Gogogogo!"

"AIR CONDITIONING!" Sam crowed as they sped off in a cloud of dust. Skin prickling in the heat, Bobby stormed out to the BisBeast and slung himself into the front seat. He hoped Sam had a good sense of that gas pedal-

Because whenever they slowed down he was going to kill them.


	10. The Hangover

"Come on, Grandma, make your move."

Rufus Turner had a bad hand. Bobby took another swig of his beer before eyeballing the hunter across the table-he didn't think Rufus realized that he ripped into his poker buddies whenever he got crappy cards. It was his tell.

Just because he didn't realize it didn't mean it didn't still piss Bobby off. That's why he took his time laying down the two pair and an ace he'd been sitting on and watched as Rufus' expression went as sour as the rotgut whiskey in his shot glass. Bobby pushed down a giggle that would have made him sound like a damn Japanese schoolgirl while Rufus scowled.

"Singer, you shouldn't play cards with a man who carries guns."

Bobby looked behind him at the arms locker in the living room, scanning the kitchen counter where gleaming silver stakes were piled next to a set of ginsu knives. A mason jar of acid sat next to the sink, glowing green in the light coming from the porch.

"I think I can handle you."

Rufus snorted. "Dream on, old man."

The phone rang just as Bobby was about to shoot back a reply. Both of them looked from the phone to the clock on the stove- it was 3:16 in the morning. A call at this hour meant the world was ending or someone needed bail-unfortunately the only person Bobby usually provided bail for was sitting across the table looking just as confused.

Bobby got up and snatched the phone from the cradle-it was the FBI phone, and of course the farthest away, so he swerved a little getting there.

"Willis, FBI." If this was a butt-dial from some drunken hunter, Bobby was going to do some hunting of his own. The phone took a second to spit out a burst of static and honky tonk that damn near blew the landline and had Bobby practically throwing it across the room before a small tinny voice called his name.

"Bobby? Uncle Bobby, it's me-it's Sam!"

The phone was back at his ear in half a second. "Sam? Where the hell are you?"

"A bar- a place called Southstar. I think we're close to your house, a couple miles west, maybe?"

"_Why _are you in a bar?"

"Dean left the motel last night and I didn't know where he was going- I thought maybe he went to grab a soda or something but after an hour I went out and couldn't find him. The cops showed up at the motel about two hours later. I thought they were there to arrest us, so I called Dean and he didn't answer his phone. He _always_ answers his phone. I got scared, Bobby. I took off and used an Internet café to hack his phone, and then I used Dad's emergency money to get a cab here-he's going to kill me. He's gonna kill both of us."

"Sam, slow down. What happened with Dean? Is he okay?"

There was a very small silence on the other end of the line behind the noise of the bar. "He's…drunk. Like _seriously_ drunk. Dad's off on work in Georgia, and I tried calling all five of his phones but he won't pick up. Dean wouldn't move when I tried to get him out of here and these ladies keep asking if I need them to call somebody to come get us and I think they mean CPS because now there's a cop in the bar. Can you come get us?"

There was a loud crash in the background that was just barely able to make it past the music, and Bobby heard Sam gasp a little. "Oh God. Bobby, I have to go. Dean's on a table."

"Sam, I-"

"Pleasehurrygottagobye!" There was a deafening clunk and the line went dead. Rufus raised an eyebrow over the rim of his Johnnie Blue glass and glanced down at the half-finished game of poker before standing up and swiping his keys off the end table next to the back door.

"Alright, Singer. I'll call it a night."

"You don't have to go, Rufus-you can stay and meet the boys." Maybe the not-so-happy family reunion that was sure to happen would be a little better if John had to convince a complete stranger that they were a functional family.

"Bobby, this is not the damn Babysitter's Club. Go get your fellas and I'll call you later after I get some research done on that case in Omaha."

"Just let me know when we're heading out. Say hi to Faith for me."

Rufus turned before opening the door. "Stop flirting with my daughter, Bobby. Don't make me shoot you."

"Then who would you call to pull your ass outta trouble?" Bobby shot back. Rufus muttered something about crankpot drunks as he ambled down off the porch to his truck, and Bobby snorted before following him. Bobby's own Ford sat creaking in the breeze, and as he turned the engine he felt his heart seize.

He could only hope he'd get there in time.

* * *

Out in the kitchen Sam had the radio up, and his singing was loud and incredibly off key as he banged around the kitchen cooking breakfast. Dean groaned and tried to bury his face in the cushions to hide from the ungodly amount of sunshine streaming through the window but ended up falling off the couch with a thud. His head was so rattled that the room tilted violently-from his place on the floor he watched an upside-down Bobby walk over across the ceiling to peer down at him with a grin that could only be described as satanic.

"Morning, sunshine!" He chirped. Loudly. Dean rolled into the gritty floorboards with a moan and attempted to slap his hands over his ears, but Bobby had him by the wrist before he could get halfway there. His head rang as Bobby hauled him upright to face the kitchen. A blurry figure Dean vaguely recognized as Sam waved cheerily from his place at the stove where the smell of bacon permeated the air. Dean's stomach flipped.

"Bobby, I think I'm gonna-"

He didn't get much further before puking into the bowl Bobby shoved at him. Thankfully the old hunter just barely kept the amulet hanging around his neck from dipping into the vomit, but that was about all the sympathy he showed as Dean promptly lost his guts to the sound of Johnny Cash's singing. By the time Dean straightened up again the song had finished playing and gone on to Metallica. Though normally a fan, Dean yelped as an electric guitar pierced his eardrums.

"Could you turn that down?" He croaked over the pounding drums vibrating in the base of his aching skull. God, it felt like something had died in his mouth, something hairy that hadn't showered in years and ate dirty socks for breakfast. Bobby reached over and cranked the dial on the radio so that the windows rattled with the beat.

"What was that? Sorry, I can't hear you over the music!" He hollered. Dean couldn't even muster the energy to be offended-it was all he could do to just close his eyes and flop back down on the couch with a barely suppressed yelp of pain.

"Bobby, please?" He did his best to look pathetic- he didn't have to try too hard. He guessed he looked pretty damn pitiful, because Bobby cut the music and handed him a Dixie cup of water.

"Drink." He ordered. Dean tossed back a swallow and squeezed his eyes shut as the liquid hit the bottom of his stomach like a boulder. His gut threatened to come out through his nose. Dean made a noise there wasn't a word for and muttered a cuss that had him ducking his pounding head to avoid Bobby's swat in his direction.

"Sam, go upstairs and pack your stuff- your dad said he'd be here in about a half hour. I'll take care of breakfast."

Sam spared one last glance at Dean before scampering up the stairs. His footsteps sounded through the house like hammers. Dean winced.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Bobby demanded, whispering not for Dean's sake but for Sam's. "Your dad trusted you to watch over Sam, to keep your kid brother from going off the rails, and you go out and get _drunk_? I might not be an expert on raising kids, but you have to be a special kind of stupid to think that you can just leave him on his own."

"Bobby, I just needed a break."

"I don't care if you needed surgery! You scared the crap out of him, and for what? So you could go get your frat boy on in Podunk, Nowhere? He called me from a bar at three AM so I could come get your ass and drag you home, and when I get there, you're slumped over a park bench like some hobo while your brother tries to fend off the women intent on taking the pair of you to Child Services."

"There were women?" Dean perked up a little at that, but a smack to the back of the head had him face down on the couch with a groan.

"That's not my point, idjit. Your dad is gonna steamroll you like a damn pancake for this-Sam called him first and from the sound of it you'll be lucky to ride home on the roof. He might just tie you to the back bumper and see if you can keep up with four wheels and a full tank of gas."

Dean rolled over to face Bobby. "So what are you asking?"

"I'm asking you why your brother had to follow your pretty boy meltdown across half a state and then call me in the middle of the night from a dive that I'm pretty sure Chuck Norris would have doubts about. You know your dad's been running from something these past couple weeks, and he told you to keep Sam safe-so why was he the one keeping the pair of you from being shipped off to a state home?"

Dean sighed. "Yes, Bobby, I screwed up. I-"

"Screwed up?" Bobby snorted. "You and your brother could have been taken and _killed_ by demons and you think that's just a blip on the radar?"

"Listen, you really don't have to-"

"You're damn right I don't! But I will anyway. That was dumb-_real_ dumb, moron-of-the-year dumb- and you expect me just to send you on your merry way?"

"You aren't my dad." Dean snapped, the hangover and his irritation bubbling over. Bobby sat back a little, thrown off his game by the sudden attitude.

"I never said I was. But short of knocking some sense in to your damn fool head, this is the best I can do. The thought of losing you two scares the hell outta me, you know that? Scares your dad too. So when you get your head out of your ass long enough to look around and realize that you don't get to pull crap like this without consequences, the both of us will cut you some slack. Until then- you are gonna have hell to pay."

"Damn right." A new voice cut in, and both of them turned to see John Winchester standing in the doorway. Dean sat bolt upright with his eyes wide. John gestured to the stove with his chin. "Bacon's burning, Singer."

Bobby rushed across the kitchen to get to the burner, yanking the pan off the flames and coughing as he waved acrid smoke away from the oven in blue waves. The fog of smoke made John look even freakier standing stoically in the living room, staring down his oldest son with a look that could only be described as contempt. Sam came thudding down the stairs with his oversized duffel dwarfing his small frame and his shaggy hair practically standing on end.  
"Dad?" He sounded wary.

"Hey, Sammy." Sam's eyebrows rose in shocked surprise when his father failed to implode in front of his eyes for using emergency money to pick up his brother from a bar. "Quick thinking with the cop, kiddo. Wait for me in the car, okay?"

Sam spared a worried glance in his brother's direction and a wave to Bobby before scampering out the front door while John stood like a statue in the middle of the room. He was calm only on the surface- it didn't take an expert on body language to see that underneath the placid exterior he was fit to be tied.

"Get in the car." he rumbled to Dean.

"Yessir." Dean mumbled. He ducked his head before following his brother outside, only flinching mildly when the daylight hit him full force on his way out the door. Bobby turned to John in the smoky kitchen, waiting to be chewed out for picking the boys up instead of letting their father get to them first. It wouldn't have mattered to John that he hadn't answered any of his phones- he would expect to be the one to pull his own kids out of trouble. That was why Bobby was shocked to all manner of hell and glory when John Winchester turned to him and said without a hint of mockery-

"Thank you, Bobby. You really pulled through last night."

Bobby shrugged. "Just go easy on the kid. The hangover might be enough to keep him in line."

John grinned. "I think we'll be listening to a little AC/DC on the way out to Baton Rouge. After the stunt he pulled in New York a few months ago, I'm surprised he went near alcohol again- he's going to be in hardcore training for months after this one."

Bobby looked out at the Impala in the driveway, where Dean was leaned over with his head pressed to the dashboard and Sam was leaned forward over the backseat talking a mile a minute. He grinned.

"Take them out to breakfast. Something greasy."


	11. Home for Christmas

I hate airplanes.

Seriously.

Sam, of course, thinks it's perfectly normal for a pressurized tin can to be tossed forty thousand feet above the ground- held up by nothing but a draft and some puny engines. Let me be the first to tell you that absolutely _nothing_ about an airplane feels even a little bit safe.

First, there are the people. It may be uncomfortable, but there's nothing like some guy's elbow stuffed into your ribs to remind you that if you die, you're all going down together. Add that to the kid about four rows back that makes you wonder why you aren't a homicidal maniac, or the pair of knees in your seat somehow pushing your spleen into your ribcage, and then-just for kicks-throw in my asshole of a brother, who is trying desperately not to giggle at the fact that we haven't even left the ground yet and I'm already sweating bullets.

"You good?" He manages to keep a straight face- barely.

"Fine." I spit through clenched teeth. I'm friggin' lovely. I have to keep reminding myself that we're doing this for Bobby, and Bobby's soul. If we fail he'll go the same way my Dad did, the same way I did a few years back, loud and messy as hell with a hellhound shredding me in to hamburger meat. It's not a fate I would wish on anyone, let alone Bobby. The memory of it makes the blood run from my face.

"Nervous flier?" The little old lady next to me asks, and I have to gulp down a tiny bit of vomit as the taxiing plane hits a pothole on the runway. The engines behind us start to whine with pressure- I have this sick feeling that they're gonna stop working as soon as we get into the air. Sam is already nose deep into his laptop files, looking up something or other with this completely calm look on his face. I try to distract myself by counting pinhole windows and checking out the flight attendant, but my mind keeps wandering to all the horrendous ways that this plane could go down.

Sixteen hours and counting.

Whoopee.

I can imagine Bobby shaking his head at the fact that I can shoot genocidal ghosts in the face but a spot of turbulence nearly makes me pee myself. It impresses me how he set me and Sam straight the other night. Surprisingly enough, it made me think about all he's actually done for us over the past few years- hell, my entire life, save a couple years way back at the beginning. Even Sam, weird and wired as he's been lately, mellowed out a little after Bobby whaled on us over the phone. The next morning he had tickets to Scotland lined up and ready to go, and he dragged my ass to the airport by guilting me shamelessly. The next thing I know I'm cutting my teeth through the gum that Sam gave me before take-off and the little old lady next to me looks worried that I'm about to puke in her flowered purse.

"I can knock you out." Sam offers.

"Shut up." I grouch. I want to hit him. I settle for playing elbow hockey on the armrest.

"Think of something happy, or I'll drug your Coke." He sounds half serious, but I don't have time to worry about it as the plane shakes and my stomach drops thirty-six thousand feet before landing in some poor bastard's pool.

"I think I'll just throw it back up in your lap." I threaten. He sits back slowly while I try counting the ice crystals on the window to stave off passing out.

Jesus, why are planes so _claustrophobic_? It's half the reason I prefer driving: Podunk, Nebraska might not have much in the way of scenery (cows and cornstalks usually being the poison of choice) but at least you can breathe without popping a lung on the earrings of the chick next to you. Plus, you know, tin can. Forty thousand feet. I've been in some pretty bad car crashes, but there's a fair chance that you'll come out of those alive- disfigured or paralyzed, but alive. Hit the ground from way up here and there won't be enough of you left to scrape into a Dixie cup. A couple feathers in the engine, and its Bye Bye Birdie.

I take a long swig of soda, but I guess I'm turning an even scarier shade of green because the old lady quietly asks the flight attendant if she can move her seat. I keep counting: window shades, emergency exits, rows to the door, steps to the bathroom, steps back to my seat, fibers in the damn seatbelt.

32 little ice crystals on the window.

15 and a half hours to go.

Doing this for Bobby. The guy who's kept me from going insane these past few years.

If we die, I'm _so _haunting his ass.

The ice in the window catches the glare suddenly, and I don't know if the panic just sends my brain into overdrive or if I'm so exhausted from worrying about Sam and Bobby and dying that the anxiety knocks me out, but all at once everything goes white and I'm gone.

"Unca Bobby."

"Unca _Bobby!"_

It took Bobby a second to realize he wasn't dreaming. He cracked open his eyes against the white glare from outside the living room window. At the sight of two big brown eyes inches from his nose, he yelled and nearly fell off the couch in surprise. Sam scrambled backwards into his brother, both of them staring wide eyed as Bobby pulled himself off the sofa to face the pair of them with a glower.

"Can I help you?" He griped at them, and then stopped as he realized both of them were sending excited looks over his shoulder at the window. From the looks on their faces it was like the damn sky was falling, and if they were waking him up at 6:30 in the morning, it had better be the War of the Worlds out there. Shaking off sleep, though, he saw that Sam was looking a tiny bit worried, and Dean looked a little too keyed up for comfort.

"Boys? What's wrong?" They looked at him. Then the window. Then each other.

It was Dean that spoke up first. "It's snowing."

Sam nodded urgently, his shaggy hair flopping up and down for maximum effect of his brother's words. Bobby looked at the pair of them incredulously.

"Of course it's _snowing._" He scoffed. "We're in South Dakota in the middle of December. What were you expecting, wildflowers?"

Dean marched over to the window and yanked back one side of the curtain. "It's not _stopping_." He elaborated gleefully with a pointed look at the drift that came up to the bottom pane of the window. Bobby looked out at the piles of snow outside- if you squinted, it did look kinda like the end of the world. Heading to the kitchen, he switched on the old radio. Sam clapped his hands over his ears as a burst of static came through the beat-up old box, the volume rattling the whiskey bottles on the counter in the blue morning light.

"…Schools closed in Lincoln County today- up to 17 inches by noon…"

Dean whooped and grabbed Sam's hands, spinning him around. "No math test!"

Bobby guessed that the end of the world might not be that big of an issue if Dean could skip a class. Sam looked less jazzed about the prospect, his wide eyes clearly stating that if school was closed civilization was collapsing on itself.

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Don't go telling me you've never seen snow before."

"Not like this." Dean shook his head, the early-morning pouf of his hair sticking up in six different directions. "We're always out of town before a bad storm can hit- Dad worries we'll get stuck. They actually let you out of school?" Dean asked, still hopping about like a crazed jackrabbit. Bobby watched the kid pinball across the room. "This is the coolest thing that's ever happened to me in my whole life!"

Sam gave another uncertain look towards the window as his brother went streaking laps around the kitchen.

"What in God's name did you two have for breakfast?" Bobby murmured half to himself, hoping the answer wasn't straight sugar or whiskey. The hyperactivity and paranoia was definitely not a normal thing for these two, but then, neither was doomsday.

"Okay." He said, clapping his hands together. Both boys froze. "Get your coats. Let's go."

"But school's canceled!" Dean protested.

"Yeah, and you two kooks need to work off some energy. We've got a driveway to shovel."

With much mumbling, moaning and groaning, the boys were outfitted in six layers of Bobby's old work flannels, raggedy scarves wrapping snugly over both of their noses. Sam's puff of hair stuck out like a halo over his ears, most of his bed head squashed under a knit cap that was about two sizes too large. Dean bounced on his toes, his excitement rubbing off on Sam, who quietly sang to himself about snow and wriggled as Bobby wrapped him in an old jacket. They were almost out the door before Sam had to pee and Dean realized he had forgotten socks, so everything came off and they raced off in separate directions. By the time Bobby got them corralled back into the front hall he had to wrestle Sam (greased octopus that he was) back into his ill-fitting layers while Dean fought to bend over past the coat to tie his shoes.

The pair of them burst out of the house like puppies, Dean hollering and whooping as he sent sprays of snow flying up in every direction. He bounded to the edge of the property and back, Sam waddling after him like an overstuffed penguin in his winter gear. Bobby slogged through the still-piling drifts to the outside garage, digging through the tools to find a shovel before firing up a kerosene heater and setting to clearing the gravel around the shop. The snow spat in stuttering waves as the boys slid over ice-covered cars and sank neck deep into the drifts. Dean pushed Sam around the scrap yard on a rusty trash can lid, and Bobby had to hold back a laugh as Sam tried to do the same for his brother, going red faced and falling nose-first into the snow in a puff of flakes as Dean sat waiting for something to happen. After the driveway had been shoveled into submission (or at least the piles of ice had been moved from one end of the lot to the other) they all trudged back inside, shaking creased snow from boots and gloves and hats and going to thaw on the ragged old couch.

Sam's hair was dripping wet and soaking through Dean's shirt as they huddled together on the sofa, but neither of them seemed to mind. Bobby set about making grilled cheese and hot chocolate in his Kiss the Cook apron while the boys watched a Charlie Brown flick on the old black and white. Bobby swore as his finger hit the edge of the pan square, burning the hell out of it. As he crossed the kitchen to pull a bandage out of the first aid cabinet he heard Sam pipe up to Dean in the other room.

"Do you think he'll come?" The kid's voice was hoarse from all the hooting and hollering earlier, but Bobby leaned forward a little to catch the conversation.

"Who?" Dean said through a stifled yawn, clearly confused.

"Dad. Do you think he'll come for Christmas?"

There was a long silence from Dean. "He'll be here, Sammy. I know it."

"With presents?"

"You bet. He'll be back real soon, right after he finishes up with work out in Kentucky."

Sam slumped a little, hiding a yawn in his fist as he wiggled his shoulders farther into Dean's chest and his eyelids fluttered closed. "Good. That's good."

Bobby had to duck back into the kitchen to stop his eyes watering as Dean swiped his sleeve across his nose and smoothed down a damp lock of Sam's hair with a fierce conviction, even as a tear dripped down his cheek.

John Winchester did not come back for Christmas.

_"_Dean._"_

"_Dean_."

I can't feel my body- I'm just kind of stuck halfway between alive and dead. I'm just alive enough to wonder if I'm actually dead before a hand jolts me back towards consciousness.

"Come on, man, you gotta get up. They're going to kick us off the plane."

The magic word makes me sit bolt upright- or try to, at least. Two faces are swimming in front of me, one Sam and one an older guy I'm not sure if I'm supposed to know or not.

"You all right, lad?" The guy asks in a Scottish accent, and I have to fight to keep my eyes open to look him in the eye.

"Wha' happen?" I manage, and even through the fog I can see Sam trying not to laugh at my slurring state of sort-of drunk. I barely have time to wonder what the hell the flight attendant put in that soda before I'm being dragged to my feet by both the guys in front of me. The Scottish dude makes sure I don't go pitching ass over teakettle across the row of cramped seats in front of me. All empty, I notice- we're the only three people left on this plane.

"We'll get some good solid whiskey in you, that'll get you back on your feet."

For once in my life, I don't want whiskey. I want a damn pillow and for my ass of a brother to stop grinning like it's Mardi Gras. My head feels heavy, sort of like the one time Dad accidentally got me high on painkillers.

_Drugs. _A synapse fires somewhere in my sluggish brain, and I can pull myself upright enough to glare at Sam as he gathers our bags and we limp off the plane together and towards the taxi lot. _For Bobby,_ I remind myself before slumping against the window of the first cab we find. And for just that minute, I can believe that all of this is worth it.

Even if my brother is an asshole.


	12. After the Fall

**A/N: Hey all, time for another update! This one is short, but inspiration hit me last night and I thought you guys deserved something to get you through the winter slump. It's a teeny ficlet set after the events of Swan Song and season 5. Hope you enjoy! If not, send me a narwhal and we'll talk about solutions to global warming and the latest episode of SPN. It'll be grand! Stay crazy- I like the company. -R.**

"You've reached Dean Winchester. Leave your name, number, and nightmare at the tone."

_Dean? It's Bobby. I was just calling to see how you're doing-you know, after everything. I'm out in Dayton right now on a rugaru case, but if you need anything I can… oh, balls. Just don't drink yourself into a coma, okay? I'll talk to you soon._

"Dean Winchester. This is the cell you call if your ass is on fire and you can't find an extinguisher, so it must be important. I'm not here, so call someone else."

_I'm about ready to light _your_ ass on fire, boy. It's been a damn month! Where the hell are you? Call me back."_

"This is Dean's other, other cell so you must know what to do."

_ I'm fixing to kill you. Are you alive? Anybody home? Cas showed up twice at my house by accident and won't tell me a damn thing about you, he just stole some spell books and went poof, but let me tell you something: your pet angel is not my responsibility. Next time Scooby shows up on my doorstep I'll shove some rock salt in his ass and tell him to pass it on._

"Dean Winchester. If your name isn't Sam, this is a wrong number. If your name is Sam, you need a haircut."

"This is Hector Aframian, and if you're calling about my credit card I'm not available. Like ever. Bye!"

"Hey, you've reached US Marshals Tyler and Perry, leave a message…"

"Nigel Tufnel from All National Mutual…"

"Father Simmons of B.A.B Christian ministry…"

"You've reached Agent Bonham…"

"Agent Page…"

"Doctor James Hetfield…"

Silence. A dead end. Bobby hung up the phone.

"This is Dean Winchester. If this is an emergency, leave a message. If you're calling about 11-2-83, please page me with your coordinates."

_Cas stopped coming and I'm running out of numbers. It's been almost a year since…since it all went down. Sure, it's a little bit late and I'm a little bit drunk, but I had to try this number one more time. I can't lose you again, Dean- it was hard enough the first time. The first few times, actually. Jesus, you boys used to pop back up again like daisies. How times have changed, huh? _

_ I drove up by your place a few days ago, saw you and Ben playing in the yard with a Frisbee. He's a cute kid, and a dead ringer for you, but I won't ask a question I don't want to hear the answer to. I thought about stopping in, catching up, but the thing I want to tell you has to be said in person. That and… Well, never mind. The thing is, I'm glad you got out of the hunting life. That kind of work, it wears you down after a while and I never wanted that to happen to you. I didn't want you to end up like your dad. Or like me. _

_ I was glad to have you when I did, and if you getting out means I never see you again I guess that's just how it has to be. Do one last thing for me, though, son- do right by that boy. Teach him how to fix a car and ride a bike. Teach him how to stand up to people when they act like asshats. Go to every game and school play- let him be a kid because it will break your heart if he never gets that chance. Keep him safe but not stupid. Be proud of him. _

_Don't think I'm not still pissed at you for ignoring my calls. _

_Balls. How the hell do I delete this?_

**_TWO YEARS LATER_**

"This is Bobby Singer's phone. You should not have this number."

_Bobby…I'm sorry. _

Silence.

A dead end.

Dean hung up the phone.


End file.
